THE 



DUKE DORMOND, 



A TRAGEDY; 



BERITOLA, 



A TALE. 



By CHARLES LLOYD. 



LONDON: 

LONGMAN, HURST, REES, ORME, AND BROWN, AND 

C. AND H. BALDWYN ; 

AND BEILBY AND KNOTTS, BIRMINGHAM. 

1822. 



1 g At? 



tiD DO, 



T. Knott, jun. Printer. 



PREFACE. 



THE Tragedy which is contained in the following 
volume was written twenty-four years ago, though it 
has since undergone many alterations. The Author 
mentions this circumstance, because, in many respects, 
it is not such a performance as, at his present time of 
life, he would have written. The candid reader must 
be the judge whether he has been too much influenced 
by that partiality which all writers, more or less, feel 
for their own productions, when he has deemed that it 
is not altogether unworthy of being presented to the 
public. The Author can truly say, that he sees many 
imperfections in it ; he even questions whether the turn 
of his mind, which rather leads him to analyze feelings, 
than to clothe them with the freshness, or to embody 
them in the flesh and blood vitality, of dramatic com- 
position, does not utterly disqualify him for this species 
of writing. The Author would just hint that where 
expectations of success are so doubtful, and where a 
consciousness of demerit is so deeply felt, even if he 
A 2 



should not be deemed to have succeeded, he hopes that 
no great disgrace would attend such a failure. 

With regard to the other Poem in this volume, the 
Author presents the reader with one more tale, a part 
of whose outline is taken from the Novels of Boccacio, 
notwithstanding the accusation of the monthly review- 
ers, that he has attempted to imitate, and failed in the 
attempt, the mixture of pathos and humour of the 
Italian writers. It is rather singular that in one of the 
poems, " Titus and Gisippus," with regard to which 
this assertion is made, not one instance of, or even the 
most remote approach to, an attempt at the humorous 
can be found; notwithstanding the said reviewers so 
facetiously remark, in reply to the allegation of the 
Author that this is the case, that they have heard of 
persons doing many things unconsciously, but never 
before heard of a person being humorous without being 
aware of it. 

Whatever be the Author's failings as a writer (and he 
is willing to submit to the imputation of many), this 
one, he is sure, cannot attach to him, the sin of imita- 
tion. If he write at all, it is not so much from preme- 
ditation and design, as in obedience to an impulse which 
it would be painful to resist — The Author has partially 
availed himself in his printed poems of the outline of 
two stories from Boccacio, not being blessed with a ge* 



nius very fertile in the invention of incidents ; but these 
were merely pegs, as it were, to which he wished to attach 
his own feelings. He never dreamed of imitating the 
style of the Italian authors, any more than Shakspeare 
may be supposed to have done (a genius with whom the 
Author would never think of comparing himself, except 
on those points which are common to all human beings) 
when he framed, as the Author presumes that he did, 
his two plays of " Cymbeline," and " All's Well that 
Ends Well," from the tales of Boccacio. 

Many very excellent persons disapprove altogether of 
performances in which portraitures of the passions are 
introduced. The Author therefore briefly, and not 
without a jealousy over himself lest he should be in the 
wrong, while he is sensible that his opinion combats that 
of the more respectable part of the community, here 
ventures to state his ideas on the subject — It is certain, 
whether impassioned delineations exist in books or not, 
that there will be what are called impassioned characters. 
They are these characters which produce and like these 
books, not these books which encourage, much less pro- 
duce, these characters. None but these would relish 
works of the description to which the Author has been 
alluding; and he is constrained to suggest, that, in 
general, he believes the prejudice which is entertained 
against impassioned performances arises from the fact, 
that, in the breast of the greater part, of readers, they 



excite a painful sense of their own deficiency as respects 
the scope and intensity of their feelings. Sooner, there- 
fore than avow their own defect, they will erect a nega- 
tion of passion into a positive virtue. On the other 
hand, the Author has known persons who have blended 
exquisite sensibility with deep early religious impres- 
sions, and who also have been much limited and re- 
stricted in their course of reading and social inter- 
course, who have found on taking up works of an im- 
passioned tendency, that they too violently stimulated 
their minds, and destroyed that equanimity and compo- 
sure, to secure which ought to be one of the first objects 
of the religious and devout. Of course the Author 
would never try to persuade persons on whom such per- 
formances thus operate to turn to them ; no — he re- 
spects too much the innate purity, and the exquisite moral 
and religious tact of such characters, to wish to dim the 
one, or to "blunt the other. But to the generality of 
those who complain of illegitimate influence from such 
works, the Author thinks that he may with justice 
reply in the language of Rousseau in answer to a simi- 
lar allegation brought against his performances, " Que 
celle qui lira celui ci, malgre son titre, ne se plaigne 
point du mal qu'il lui aura fait ; elle ment. Le mal 
etoit fait d'avance : elle n'a plus rien a risquer." — For 
one person that objects to books of an impassioned ten- 
dency from an exquisite nicety and impressibility of 
temperament, there are many, many indeed, who only 



do it as a screen for their own coldness ; or to speak 
perhaps more correctly, as well as more liberally, from 
a sort of instinctive dislike to the portraiture of feel- 
ings to which no corresponding chord vibrates in their 
bosoms. The main objection, the Author conceives, 
which can be made against impassioned works is the 
following. Not only no person would either read them 
or write them while under the impression of religious 
feeling, but also a taste for them and a taste for religion 
could not co-exist in the same mind. Is this true ? If 
it be, not a word would the Author of the following 
performance say in their extenuation. But in his 
opinion, if, by really religious persons, neutral pur- 
suits may be at all tolerated, pursuits which are neither 
religious nor irreligious, and whose only recommenda- 
tion is that they exercise the intellectual faculties (such 
subjects for instance as those of science, history, and 
the greater part of those which form the basis of poetry), 
works in which the passions are delineated may also lay 
claim to the same toleration. Of course the Author 
entirely excludes either from toleration, or from the 
compass of this apology, those works which pourtray 
the passions in an inflammatory or seductive manner. 
Who was ever made ambitious by reading Macbeth, or 
King Richard the Third ; jealous by reading Othello ; 
and died a martyr to the frenzies of imagination, or to 
the fervours of love, from the perusal of Hamlet or of 
Romeo and Juliet ?— and who of an intellectual cast, 



Via 

who had read these tragedies, would wish not to have 
been introduced to such exquisite delineations of the 
workings of the human mind ? 

On the other hand, having premised that there will 
be persons of an impassioned cast, whether or not there 
be literary performances adapted to their character, the 
Author affirms that such persons, in an excited state of 
mind, will not, cannot find an interest in matter-of-fact 
books, or books of science ; he further thinks that the 
perusal of works adapted (of course in no way offensive 
to the interests of morality) to the above excited state 
of mind, instead of augmenting that excitement, often, 
as it were, rather absorbs the redundant sparks of pas- 
sion which are ready to fly off in all directions, and 
which not only o'erinform, but absolutely disease the 
mind *" In the opinion of the Author, books deve- 
lope, never create ; they are only relished in proportion 
as they reflect back what they already find in the mind ; 
they modify the previous impressions, they seldom af- 
ford new materials for excitement." +" The Author 
has seen in many religious families from which books of 
imagination were very much excluded, the same intel- 
lectual ennui, the same indisposition, and incapacity 
for receiving excitement from ordinary reading which 

* Preface to Isabel, a tale by C.Lloyd, p. 28. 
t Ditto, p. S3. 



by the superficial is supposed to be an effect produced 
exclusively by the habit of perusing works of an im- 
passioned and exciting cast. The Author allows that 
many of these works have a most pernicious tendency ; 
yet he believes that the worst books are a very ineffi- 
cient part of the causes of vice in any given character; 
books are resorted to in states of meditation, and not in 
states of active impulse ; and it is in the latter state 
chiefly, when strong impressions happen to be made 
upon it, that the character is irrevocably formed." — 
The Author himself thinks, that he has found when his 
mind has been in an excited and restless state, that the 
perusal of a book which has described a similar one, so 
far from acting as a stimulus, has rather operated as a 
sedative ; the matter of the book has neutralized the 
exacerbations of his spirit ; has absorbed its redundan- 
cies ; and from such an employment he has often arisen 
refreshed and tranquillized, when had he attempted to 
seek refreshment or tranquillity from some author 
whose topics were one shade more remote from his then 
state of mind, than the one in question happened to be, 
he either would have turned from it in disgust, or 

would have found it incompetent to fix his attention 

*" Books," as we have said before, " modify the pre- 
vious impressions ; they seldom afford new materials of 
excitement. If this remark be just, the objection to 
impassioned works falls at once. The impassioned, if 

* Pieface to Isabel, p. 28, 29. 



deprived of them, will only be impassioned in a more 
dangerous way, because with less of intellectual associa- 
tion ; the unimpassioned are always secured from their 
influence, by the texture of their minds, and by the 
contempt which they affect, or feel, for them." Be- 
sides, to sum up all which can be said on this subject 
in one phrase, is it not better to educate, than to endea- 
vour to annihilate the passions ? — there are many even 
of perilous natures who might be conciliated by the for- 
mer process — how many are there that are driven to 
desperation, and goaded, as it were, to an inseparable 
distance from the virtuous, between whom and them- 
selves an impassable gulph seems to yawn, by the 
latter ! 

The Author can scarcely forbear adding, that it was 
not till the following Tragedy had gone through the 
press to nearly the middle of the fourth act, that it struck 
him that the feelings of some of his more serious friends 
might be hurt by it. Under this impression he would 
gladly have cancelled it, had not the expence attending 
such a change, and the pledge given to the publisher of 
the following work as to its contents, been the source of 
considerations which weighed upon him on the other 
hand. The Author knows that we are commanded by 
Apostolic authority not to *" put a stumbling block in 
a brother's way," nor to do " any thing" whereby a 

* Romans, chap xiv. v. 13, 21. 



* c brother stumbleth, or is offended, or is made weak ;" 
and he can truly say, that, had it occurred to him be- 
fore the contents of this volume were sent to the press, 
that any portion of them had such a tendency, he would 
at once have consigned them to oblivion, even though 
had he thought far more highly than he now thinks of 
them in a literary point of view : and now that, too late 
to effect any change, except by means of an inconveni- 
ence which seems fraught with greater evil than can be 
produced by suffering that which is already printed to 
remain, the idea has been suggested to him that such 
offence might be taken at some parts of the following 
Tragedy, all that the Author can say is, to produce 
such an impression was so far from forming any part of 
his object in publishing it, that in as much as such an 
impression is produced he shall have to regret that he 
was inadvertent of the possibility of such a consequence 
till it was too late to avoid it. 

There are many ways in which probably this Tragedy 
might be altered for the better, particularly in the fifth 
act. Some final destination ought perhaps to be as- 
signed to Courtenaye and Despard; and indeed the 
Author had added a scene, which would have lengthened 
the present Tragedy, in which something of this kind 
was attempted, but he felt as if the catastrophe at the 
end of the first scene of the fifth act closed the inte- 
rest of the piece, and any further detail, and amplifica- 



tion of its denouement would but weaken and attenuate 
it. Besides, to speak the truth, the identity is passed 
from the Author which led to the composition of this 
piece ; all attempts from him to alter it would be but so 
much patch-work. It is better that a composition should 
be defective from curtailment, than enfeebled by too 
much detail ; in a former part of this preface, the Au- 
thor has said, " if he write at all, that he must write 
in obedience to an impulse which it would be painful to 
resist, rather than from premeditation and design," and 
not only the reverse of all this, but also to write in ab- 
solute opposition to inclination and impulse, would be 
his predicament, were he to attempt to add to this jcu 
tV esprit of former years. 

The Author hopes that it is supererogatory to inti- 
mate that the defence of duelling in the second scene of 
the fourth act of this Tragedy is merely inserted as 
characteristic of the personage into whose mouth it is 
put, and not the expression of his own sentiments. 
Besides it is but a relative and comparative defence : it 
is not there pretended that the practice is good in itself, 
but only better than something which has been intro- 
duced in its place ; it is not spoken of as a commendable 
thing, but as a lesser evil. 

Woodfield, May 16, 1822. 



BERITOLA. 



POEMS, &c. 



THE STORY OF BERITOLA. 
1. 

XN Sicily, when Manfred was its King, 

A chief, from Naples, lived, Bertholdo named, 

Whose monarch's smiles did on his station fling 
Whate'er resplendence subject could have claimed. 

This Cavalier 'neath the protecting wing 
Of his dear Lord, that island so far famed 

As Viceroy ruled ; and intercession needed, 

Each deemed his cause gained, if he interceded. 

2. 

This Noble had a fair and virtuous mate, 

Also a Neapolitan ; he lived, 
As I have mentioned, in exceeding state 

In Sicily: and greatly was he grieved 
Hearing that Carlos had in battle met 

His royal Lord, and him of life bereaved. 
Bertholdo now rather resolved to fly 
Than yield to an usurped authority. 

8 



* THE STORY OF 

3. 

But the Sicilians, having- of this gained 
Some intimation, seized upon him when 

He least suspected it, and bound, and chained, 
Delivered him — with many a citizen 

Attached to Manfred — to the King who reigned 
Now in his stead, who thrust him in a den 

Beneath the Palace of Palermo, where 

They pined, of Freedom hopeless, many a year. 

4. 

The Lady of Berth ol do, who was called 
Beritola, quite ignorant of the fate 

Of her loved Lord; doubtful if he were thralled; 
Or dead in his defence who lately sate 

On the Sicilian throne ; and much appalled 
Lest, in his absence, and the present state 

Of universal tumult, she should be 

Dishonoured, iled in haste from Sicily. 

5. 

One Son had she eight summers who had lived ; 

Guisfredi was his name : with him she fled; 
Her womb a second burthen had conceived : 

She, with much labour, and still greater dread, 



BERITOLA. 3 

Had to the Isle of Lipari contrived 

To make good her escape. Oa wretched bed 
Within a little hut, another child, 
Upon the fugitive mother there first smiled. 

6. 

Scacciato was he called ; as we suppose 
His banished fortune to commemorate, 

Ere many weeks had gone by, lest her foes 
Being informed where she lived desolate, 

Should seize her, and her sons, a nurse she chose, 
And with these babes, too young to mourn their fate, 

And that same nurse, without a further train, 

She sought her native city to regain. 

7. 
But it so chanced that by contrarious wind 

The bark in which they all set sail was driven 
'Gainst Ponza, where in narrow bay they find 

From adverse storms, a temporary haven. 
While fate their course thus frustrates, they inclined 

T'explore the coverts of that rock uneven. 
There disembarked Beritola, in mood 
To muse upon her fate in solitude. 

b 2 



4 THE STORY f OF 

8. 
She found a ravine in that desert isle 

Meet for the purpose. Here and there a tree, — 
Its root half rifted from the ancient pile 

Of rock which o'er it tower' d portentously — 
Hung bridge-like over head : a stream meanwhile — 

Whose subterranean course you might but see 
At intervals — dashing 'mid rocks and stones, — 
There boiled and chafed in melancholy tones. 

9. 

Here, sheltered by a venerable yew r , 

Would oft the sad Beritola repair: — 
One day — as 'twas her custom so to do — 

That she had thither been to soothe her care, 
Melting down hours to moments, while the hue, 

And character of that wild scene, and bare, 
Accorded so well with her desolate lot, 
That she could scarcely leave the lonely spot ; 

10. 

One day, as 'twas her use, when she had been 
Reflecting there longer than she was wont ; 

And now towards the ocean verge, the well-known 
scene 
Where she had left her babes, from that rude haunt, 



BEMTOLA. t> 

She was returning, trace could not be seen 

Of babes or mariners : — nor streamers flaunt* 
The wonted signal of that little bark, — 
Within that narrow haven could she mark. 

11. 

She flew towards a little neck of land, 

"Which intercepting, from her sight did hide 

A long continued prospect of the strand ; 
And, of that rocky isle, the adverse side r 

'Till now athwart its surface she had scanned, 
The streamer of that bark which there did ride, 

Safe from the winds within a tiny creek, 

Whose waves against that neck of land did break. 

12. 

She gains its highest point, — nor mariner, — 

Nor child, — nor nurse, — nor pinnace could she see ; 

Wild, in an agony of mighty fear, 
To that Isle's loftiest station instantly 

She flies: and here she finds, what seemed to her 
Too dreadful a misfortune true to be. 

At distance she a gaily does discern 

Towing that pinnace cabled to its stern. 



THE STORY OF 

13. 

At once the truth rushed on her. — All is lost. — 
Some Pirates there have been ! and they are gone! 

Her children ! — mariners ! — have left that coast ! 
The pinnace too ! — The only means whereon 

She could have rested hope the sea V have crossed ! 
She faints ! — She falls ! — No one can hear her groan ! 

For that small island as its native guest 

Not even one inhabitant possessed. 

14. 

No one is there in her extremity, 

E'en drop of water to bestow ! Save sands, 

And boundless seas, and rocks, and the blue sky- 
Nought is there when her eye again expands 

On which its gaze may fix ! From sympathy, 
And all the solace man from man commands? 

In woes far less than this, in this her great, 

And mighty woe, she is cut off by fate. 

15. 

She who to all the luxuries was used 

Of homage prompt from an obedient train, 

She whom the rough winds never had abused, 
Who ne'er the pelting hail, or drenching rain, 



BERITOLA. V 

Had felt ; nor save with eye of taste perused 

" The season's difference/' never felt its pain ; — 
She now is left to hunger, and to bear 
All sounds of danger, and all forms of fear. 

16. 

Her trance subsides ! But such a fearful thing — 
When she awakes to it — the real seems ; 

That, — ere her hands with terror she doth wring — 
She almost fancies that terrific dreams 

Abuse her sense : — but th' elements soon bring — 
Rude summoners of thought — a shock that teems 

With horrid certainty. The biting air, 

And roaring waves, hopes of illusion scare. 

17. 

The day is closing. Yet no shriek she gave ! 

As dumb as it is deep is her despair ! 
She does not rush into the yawning wave : 

Nor beat her breast ; nor rend her streaming hair : 
Her first thought is ; " yet perhaps in some cave 

" My infants may be lodged. I will repair — 
" While yet some light remains — in every nook, 
" Aud rocky hiding-place, for them to look." 



8 THE STORY OF 

18. 
First towards that place, her oft repeated haunt, 

That deep ravine, she wends. When it she saw 
Again, it seemed to her she had been wont 

To live in Paradise, when last with awe — 
Then unbereft of children— she its gaunt, 

And rude recesses, trod. Care seemed to gnaw 
Her bosom then; but now to dumb despair, 
Like joy, seemed milder miseries of care. 

19. 

She looked upon the yew beneath whose shade 
She had so oft reclined, and " oh," she cries, 

" What comfort then was mine, when once I made 
" Thee, conscious witness of my miseries ! 

" I then had babes, when from thy gloom I strayed, 
" To welcome my return ! Oh agonies 

" Not to be borne ! How will the little one 

" Miss that fond bosom which it nestled on I*' 

20. 

" How will Guisfredi with his eyes suffused 

" With tears, exclaim, * where is my Mother, 
where ?' 

" Ye barbarous wretches had not ye refused 
" Me to take with them, I would freely spare 



BERITOLA, <: 

" The bitter curse ! But what could have abused-— 
" That it could children from their mother tear — 
" The human heart to such obduracy? 
" If ye had fathers been this could not be !V 

21. 

Then from that spot the maniac mother flew, 

When she perceived that all her search was vain ; 

Each nook she visited, nor of that crew, 
Nor of her children could she trace regain. 

Once more she tottered to that gloomy yew, 
Outworn and famishing ! yet 'twas not pain; — 

'Twas agony — or if a word more fierce 

There be — 'twas it that did her heart's core pierce. 

22. 

Through that long night she sate upon the ground : 
And all that made her conscious she yet lived 

Was when a star shot through the gloom profound, 
And with its light somewhat the sense revived 

Of outward things ! yea, such grief did confound, 
And overwhelm, her functions, that, derived 

Was, from the silent stars, in that lone waste 

Of being, all that after memory traced. 



10 THE STORY OF 

23. 

What agony did that next morning's dawn 
To her convey ? The first sight she had seen, 

The first thing felt, when darkness was withdrawn, 
Had been her sucking infant ! Time had been 

When Scacciato's little hands did fawn 

Upon her breasts ! Pangs exquisite and keen 

Now harbour there, and no infantine lip 

Brings coolness to them with its eager sip. 

24. 

She sees, she sees, the little pouting mouth 
Pressed to her bosom, its nectareous hue 

More soft than that of rose, when, from the south 
The amorous winds have just imbibed its dew ! 

She stretches her arms forth ! The piteous drouth 
Of her poor little nursling doth she view! 

Sweet phantom, stay awhile ! It will not stay ! 

She strains her strenuous arms ! It melts away ! 

25. 

Just at that moment from a neighbouring cave, 
Which she had not perceived, in that ravine, 

A She-Goat issued. From despair to save 

That wretched mother, what a thought hath been 



BERITOLA. 11 

The inmate of her heart ! Now doth she brave 
The thorns and jutting rocks which th' entrance 
screen 
Of a low cavern ; there, upon the ground, 
Nestling", a pair of just dropped goats she found. 

26. 
With eager, frantic gesture then she stooped, 

Exposing to their little lips her breast ; 
That natural sustenance which had long been cooped 

E'en till she was with agony oppressed, 
They swiftly drank. As blossom that hath drooped 

Beneath the sun, as now toward the west 
The day retires, the evening dew refreshes ; 
So she revived from every drop that gushes ! 

27. 
As towards that cavern's orifice she turns, 

While thus these goatlings drew away her pain, 
It seems as if the sun less fiercely burns, 

The sky a softer azure seems to gain ; 
A gush of nature in her breast that yearns 

Towards these helpless creatures doth unchain 
The fount of tears : it seems as if a hand 
Has, from her temples, snatched a fiery brand. 



12 THE STORY OF 

28. 
*A new-born welcome, to her eyes, is seen 

Reflected from each branch that stirs in air, 
Each leaf that by the breeze is kissed, a green 

Of more refreshing hue appears to bear. 
A liquid freshness mantles all the scene : 

The parched aridity of her despair 
To something of a softer nature changes ; 
And thought, e'en while she weeps, more freely ranges. 

29. 
The fever of the body, and the mind, 

Seemed thus abated ; and then first she felt 
The call of hunger. But how could she find 

What might assuage her appetite ? She knelt — 
And, thankful, that, when fate seemed least inclined 

To be her friend, some succour had been dealt, 
She now resolved, through trust in Heaven to gain 
That which ne'er yet was trusted to in vain. 

30. 
Thus sometimes weeping for her children lost ; 
And sometimes for her husband; — of the fruits, 

♦The breeze I see is on the tree : 

It comes to soothe my child and me. Wordsworth . 



BERITOLA. 13 

And berries, — which the sterile rocks embossed 
Of this rude isle — partaking: by these goats, — 

And by their mother, she was so engrossed, 

That they to her as friends were. Each salutes. 

At morn's return, the other as a friend! 

Each, at day's close, to the same cave doth wend. 

31. 

Ah, who can tell, that hath not thus been tried, 
By what fine filaments the human breast 

May be once more to natural objects tied? 
When of each succour fortune doth divest 

Her wretched victim. One who years did 'bide 
Within a dungeon finally caressed 

A Spider, as a friend ! If this be so, 

Why towards a goat may not like feelings glow? 

32. 

The mind is all in all ! He who can see 

Various intelligence in infant's smile, 
Somewhat would he enlarge his sympathy, 

May even with a reptile spurned, and vile, 
Much more then may, with harmless creature, be 

Domesticated so, he may beguile 
Whole hours in their society, and find 
At last, in them companionable mind. 



14 * THE STORY OF 

33. 

*Hath not, in later times, Geneva's Sage, — 
Who seemed overflowing with the soul of love,- 

Proved to what height this passion may engage 
The human heart, when its desires so move 

Towards objects from without, that, to assuage 
Its intense yearnings, we its influence prove 

On bird or beast ? Say, can ye hear, and blame, 

When with such care his pigeons he doth tame? 

34. 

In general those who most this instinct feel, 

Are they with natural sensibility 
Endowed, whom fortune hath compelled to steel 

Their hearts against each softer human tie. 
But since, though stress of circumstance conceal 

All overt promptings of this sympathy, 
They still must own its force, that force enthralls 
Them in mute fellowship with animals. 

35. 

The lorn Beritola had better plea 

For humble intercourse; the slender thread 
Was it to her, whose occult agency 

Her with existence sensitive doth wed. 

♦See Rosseau's Confessions, Vol. ii. p. 1 16.— Duodecimo edition. 



BERITOLA. 15 

Mere fact of life — it is a mystery ! — 

A sacred thing !— to those to hope quite dead, 
A breathing creature as a spirit moves, 
Before that heart, which, loving, no one loves ! 

36. 
That gentle Lady, was, by length of time, 

So to her houseless fortune reconciled, 
That she, in that inhospitable clime, 

Without a dwelling, — e'en though berries wild 
Were her sole food, and banks of fragrant thyme 

Her only pillow, and her beverage mild 
Its natural springs, — had, — as her destiny, — 
E'en though she might go thence, — fixed there to die, 

37. 
While she abode there thus, it chanced there came 

To that same isle of Ponza, pinnace small 
From Pisa: 'mong the crew was one by name 

Currado, who had made a vow, to all 
Apulia's shrines tribute to bring, and claim 

From this an absolution general, 
Not only for the failings of the past : 
But for all failings long as life should last. 



16 THE STORY OF 

08. 

So to divert a melancholy mood, 

On bis return, had he decreed, with dart, 

And well trained hounds, from rock, and copses rude 
Of that same isle, its tenants wild to start. 

Within the confines of a strangling wood, 

Which stretched towards that ravine, which to the 
heart 

Of lorn Beritola was so endeared ; 

Currado with his company careered. 

39. 
With this same Lord from Pisa had his Dame 

Disembarked ako on that desert isle; 
She too with him pursued the flying game : — 

As it so chanced the little goats meanwhile 
Were browsing on a heath hard by. Here came 

The panting dogs in formidable file 
The goats pursuing, till, at length oppressed, 
They found a shelter in that Lady's breast. 

40. 
With brandished staff she kept the dogs at bay ; 

Meantime their course that Lord and Lady bend 
To that same cavern where Beritola 

Fondles the goats whom she did erst defend. 



BERITOLA. 17 

They marvelled much when her they did survey : 

Dishevelled from her head her locks depend. 
Savage in mien was she, and not a trace 
Remained of gentlewoman's courtly grace. 

41. 

When as Currado, at that Dame's request, 

The dogs, who still clung round her, had dispersed, 

How there she came, and wherefore she was guest 
Of spot like this, what fate her thus had cursed, 

He urged her courteously to manifest. 
Beritola, in accents few, rehearsed 

Her past mishaps, and then did she aver 

That nothing, from that isle, should sever her! 

42. 

Though they both marvelled greatly at her tale, 

For to Currado had Bertholdo once 
Been known ; they marvelled more nought could 
prevail 

To make Beritola the life renounce 
Which there she had sustained; nor did they fail 

Blame on such resolution to pronounce. 
Hoping meantime she might be reconciled 
To purpose less inexorably wild. 
c 



18 THE STORY OF 

43. 

Currado offered her, if she would go 

With him, as brother should a sister treat, 

That he to her all courtesy would shew, 

And pledged that all with homage her should greet ; 

And that on her he should himself bestow 
An exhibition for her station meet. 

Nor though he urged her much, could he incline 

Her, that forlorn condition to resign. 

44. 

At last he cried, " I will withdraw awhile, 

" And leave my wife with thee, perhaps she may, 

" More than myself, be able to beguile 

" Thee of thy purpose stern. Meanwhile I pray, 

" Deign so far on our proffered love to smile, 
" As in some fitting garments to array 

" Thy unprotected form : consent to wear 

" Some vestments which my train shall hither bear." 

45. 

Currado's noble wife meantime did cause 
A table to be spread, and viands placed 

Before Beritola, who long did pause 
Ere she of them could be induced to taste. 



BERITOLA. 19 

To what her Lord had said with such applause 

Referred she, and so much that proffer graced, 
That finally Beritola did own 
That what she chiefly feared was to be known. 

46. 
Meantime the She-Goat, which had roamed to browse 

Among the rocks, the cave re-visited. 
Beritola, as she was wont, allows 

This faithful animal to thrust her head 
Upon her lap. She licks her hand which strews 

Portion of that whence she had lately fed 
Before her on the ground. This uncouth guest 
Caressing her* was thus by her caressed. 

47. 
The Lady marvelled much. Beritola 

To her the story of that goat did tell : 
Currado's wife then fervently did say 

That if that Lady deigned with them to dwell, 
Not only she in solitude should stay, 

Remote from intercourse, but to compel 
Her, with the less reluctance, she invites 
Her goats to share in hospitable rites. 



c 2 



20 THE STORY OP 

48. 
The Lady, ere Currado re-appeared, 

Promise extorted from the sad recluse ; — 
That when from Ponza's isle their pinnace steered, 

She too with them would go. From the long* use 
Of savage life, was savage food endeared 

So far to this lorn outcast, that the juice 
Of berries, and pure water which appeased 
Her thirst, her more than costly viands pleased. 

49. 
The crew embark. — To her dumb faithful friends,— 

Whom she, for all the world, would not have left,— 
Beritola still clave : — and oft she sends- — 

As distance of its shores, the sight bereft — 
Reluctant thoughts towards that huge rock which 
bends 

Roof-like, athwart that solitary cleft, 
With many a yew, and gnarled oak-tree crowned, 
And where those harmless comforters she found. 

50. 

In widow's weeds attired, and seldum seen 
Beyond the limit of her chamber small, 

(Which she had chosen as the fittest scene 
For meditation, since in forest tall 



BERITOLAv 21 

It was embowered ; for this room between, 

And the main building of the ancient hall 
Where dwelt Currado, trees umbrageous stood) 
Beritola abode in solitude, 

51. 

The edifice was ancient, and the place, 

And its austere environs, well agreed 
With the profound imperishable trace 

Of melancholy thought, which all could read 
'Graved in Beritola's expressive face : — 

The narrow limit ne'er did she exceed 
Of her embowered, and insulated cell, 
Save at the summons of the chapel bell. 

52. 

The edifice was ancient, massy towers 

Thence peered 'bove branchy woof of aged trees,; 

The clustering ivy there formed gloomy bowers 
At noon of day : thence oft the wanderer sees 

The owl sail silently in evening hours, 

From cornice, battlement, and jutting frieze. 

The raven croaks there; and as fails the light 

The bat wheels round and |ound its sultry flight. 



22 THE STORY OF 

53. 

Thence from the chapel tower peals the stern bell, 
Its sounds reverberate from some neighbouring 
wood ; 

At midnight hour thence may be heard to swell 
The distant weltering of the ocean flood ; 

As through the thick mist tolls the day's slow knell, 
And o'er the groves the large red moon doth brood, 

"What fathomless masses of deep shade lurk there ! 

What forms fantastic start of awful fear ! 

54. 

A book sometimes Currado's Lady brought; 

To saintly legends earnestly she lent 
An ear : to pious manual whence faith caught 

For deeper zeal a fostering argument. 
By her, while ofltimes in intensest thought 

On what was passed, whole winter nights were spent, 
When the near forest moaned with blast of night, 
Her soul to Ponza's rocky isle took flight. 

55. 

When with sonorous trumpet came the wind ; 

And in those pauses deep, when storms are nigh, 
"Which in charm'd trance, as 'twere, creation bind, 

In lowest whispers it doth pant and die ; 



BERITOLA. 23 

When like the night's stern spirit unconfined 

It spake of fear, and deep-tongued mystery ; 
When like the lapsing flute's soft melodies, 
Silence might seem to listen to its sighs ; 

56. 
Then much she loved romantic tales to con 

Of those, who, — after hardships long and strange, 
And fearful risks, and desolation, 

And " hair-breadth 'scapes," and frequent rueful 
change, 
At last, had ample retribution won; 

And then her thoughts would to her husband range, 
And to her children, and while thus she read, 
A secret faith her spirit passioned. 

57. 

With every heroine she identified 

Herself, by whom or husband had been lost, 

Or children; till at last her fancy fed 

By such discourse with books, had gain'd almost 

To her reality : and she was led 

To day-dreams, which so totally engrossed 

Her sympathetic heart, that she addressed 

Self-rais'd, self-questioned forms, as real guest. . 



24 THE STORY OF 

58. 

That heart which had in Ponza's solitude — 
Except her goats — no one external friend ; 

Her with the faculty had there endued 
Shapings with it so potently to blend, 

And to work up, as in fantastic mood, 
Ideas, till the real it did lend 

To their procession, that this power pervaded 

Her more than ever since by books 'twas aided. 

59. 

Thus she became a visionary creature ; 

The winds talked to her, and the silent moon ; 
In clouds she traced an intellectual feature; 

And stars were her companions ! The boon 
Of phantasy seemed to exalt her stature: 

Her eyes were as of one who in day's noon 
Conversed with spirits. Such thoughts in her had birth, 
She was not as a being of this earth. 

60. 
Oft was she rapt with eager presages, 

Like Pythian Priestess was her very frame 
Convulsed with workings from dim messages ! 

Which, though she felt, she knew not whence they 
came. 



BEltlTOLA. 25 



And oft, she said, when most that fury rages — 

(And then with intropenetrating flame, 
Her eye pierced through impenetrable things) 
" This from my children, and my husband springs 



61. 

Then to her goats would she awhile recur, 

And they, while dearer things from her were fled, 
x As children, and as husband, seemed to her; 

A something, meanwhile raised up in their stead ; 

To these dumb creatures thus did she transfer 
A higher influence 'till it seemed to shed — 

With passion-linked thoughts — upon their traces, 

Suggestions dim, and visionary graces. 

62. 

Thus so much seemed they representative 
To her of dearer objects, that whate'er 

Happened to each of these, she did believe 
That it the secret fortune did declare 

Of that more lovd thing, of which ihis did live 
A granted symbol : thus should sickness tear 

These creatures from her, when she that had seen, 

In thought, a childless widow had she been. 



26 THE STORY OF 

63. 

Her dreams were life ! Her very thoughts were forms ! 

A language hieroglyphic could she read 
In all created things ; and fancy warms 

Her spirit so, that it a shape decreed 
Which, ere the act matures, the soul informs 

Of that which shall infallibly proceed 
From the next moment! In each hue, or tinge 
Of outward shapes, fate did a truth inpinge. 

64. 
Thus things for her doubly exist. She sees 

Will's shadow ere that will is brought to act ; 
The birds seem sent to her on ministries 

Of weal or woe : whatever the fates transact, 
Ere 'tis transacted, she perceives the breeze 

Of its approaching presence : for all fact 
There seems to be such fitness in her state ; 
'Twixtthem seems harmony predestinate. 

65. 

Thus, as it is by some supposed, in heaven 

There will of thoughts be such true symbols seen, 

That there a clear reflection will be given 
Externally of that which is within, 



BERITOLA. 27 

So that to forms will such a spiritual leaven 
Be thus imparted, that they will be, e'en 
Like vast phantasmagoric types, which need, 
Of further utterance, will supersede: 

66. 

So did all accidents to this Dame speak — 

So were ideas to mute substances 
Imparted, that she never strove to seek 

Beyond the intimations which these glances — 
When they on her overwhelmingly thus break 

In intuitions, and impetuous trances — 
Convey to her. Life, and all forms of life, 
To her with speaking mysteries were rife. 

67. 
She has, or fancies that she has, or ere 

A person stands before her, in her soul 
Imprinted his idea. Thiiigs appear 

But outward types which spirit doth controul. 
Seen objects seem to her the hemisphere 

In which is bodied forth the complex whole 
Of man's interior state ; and what we see 
Is but mere accident of what we be. 



28 THE STORY OF 

68. 

Those beings who with her had lately been 
Seem to leave with her their peculiar spirit ;«— ■ 

Their voice not only had she heard; had seen 
Not only their exterior ; of their merit 

Not only had opinion form'd ; but e'en — • 

Like impress on warm wax — she seemed t^ inherit 

Their very selfhood — see their life of lives : — 

Their life's love : — that whence each act end derives. 

69. 

She had drunk of their existence ! E'en as things, 

With chemical affinities, combine, 
Had she combined with them ! Like scorpion stings 

Did bad men leave with her! And love divine 
Lies on her spirit as with brooding wings — 

Like shadows on the crystal hyaline 
Which him of Patmos saw — when blessedly 
Into the good man's heart she seems to see 1 

70. 
But, gentles, it is fit that I should now 

Turn to that vessel, which did steer away 
From Ponza's isle ; bearing upon its prow 

Her precious babes. For Genoa's ample bay 



BERITOLA. 29 

Was this bark bound : and scarce did time allow 

The mariners to reef the sail, and weigh 
The anchor, than that weeping nurse did land, 
And weeping children, on a foreign strand, 

7h 

When as the booty now was duly shared 
Among that ship's proprietors ; — the nurse 

And these poor children, found the sea had spared 
Their lives for bondage : e'en than death, a curse 

More to be dreaded ! He, with whom they fared, 
By name, was Guaspirini. To rehearse 

How they endured with him a service hard, 

And sordid, scarce would suit the theme of bard. 

72. 
Ill clad, worse shod were they, and coarsely fed ! 

The nurse, whose grief was measureless at first, 
When she her mistress 1 loss remembered, shed 

Abundant tears, and her hard fortune curs'd. 
And when she saw these babes fair prospects fled, 

And to herself indignantly rehearsed 
From what height they had fallen, abundant fears 
For them had she, and on them fell her tears. 



30 THE STORY OF 

73. 

But since she saw that nothing could be gained 
By weeping for these babes, and since discreet 

She was, and prudent, she from tears refrained, 
And earnestly Guisfredi did entreat 

To hide his name, and birth; and thus she feigned 
They were her children, and did this repeat 

To all enquirers. Peril, well she knew, 

Might, were their birth divulged, to them ensue. 

74. 

For many partizans had Carlos there : — 
Thus tutored she so well the elder boy 

That if, by any chance, he questioned were 
To tell his name, he did at once reply 

** Giannotto," with so unconcerned an air, 
That no one doubted his sincerity. 

And she entreated him, however base, 

Or mean his task, to do it with good grace. 

75. 

She hoped the future better days might bring, 

When safely both their birth and rights might be — 

The first made known; — the last reclaimed; — when 
king 
Legitimate should govern Sicily. 



BERITOLA. 31 

Who to his lofty seat perchance might bring 

A heart less adverse to this family, 
Than that of his, who, as their hard fate will' d, 
Its throne, now undisputed monarch, filled. 

76. 
Thus years past on — but when his sixteenth year 

Giannotto gained, a high and lofty spirit 
No longer suffered him the yoke to bear 

Of sordid servitude. He did inherit 
A soul impatient of the sway of fear, 

And prompted by that confidence of merit 
Which youth and health inspire, from Genoa, he 
Stole in an Alexandrian argosy. 

77. 
Three years he roamed from place to place : nor e'er 

Occasion found auspicious to display 
Those powers, which inly told him that they were 

Born for distinction on a future day. 
At last he heard that he whose rightful heir 

He was,- was living still, though he yet lay 
^Prisoned by Carlos. — Thus, without a home, 
He to Lunigiana chanced to roam. 



32 THE STORY OF 

78. 
By accident, he there Currado met, 

Who, pleased with his deportment, him did hire 
To wait upon his person ; and while yet 

Beritola, within her cell, — the fire 
Of her most ardent spirit oft did whet 

With dreams fantastic of his absent sire, 
And of himself, and brother, there lived he, 
Close by that mother, inadvertently, 

79. 
Never had they yet met. For, as I said, 

Beritola did seldom quit her cell ; 
And never save when to her prayers she sped 

At the due summons of the Chapel bell. 
Now while such abject life Giannotto led, 

A daughter of Currado it befel, 
A youthful widow, her spouse dead, did come 
Once more to dwell in her ancestral home. 

80. 
With partial eyes Giannotto she surveyed,— 

As well she might:— for manly was his form :— 
Nature had most profusely lent her aid 

To give him that which doth most surely charm 



BERITOLA. S3 

The female heart ! On all his mien there played 

Grace, which originates in passion warm, 
And lofty ; and a high intrepid fire 
His eyes now shot, now beamed with soft desire. 

81. 

Upon his lips there played a subtle smile, 

Whose charm his ivory teeth might well augment; 

His rich black hair, in masses, all the while, — 
Or, in crisp ringlets on his forehead, — lent 

Assistance to those charms which most beguile : 
As rich frame doth rich painting ornament, 

To aid expression nothing can compare 

With fluctuation of luxuriant hair. 

82. 
His eye, though piercing, had a furtive glance 

Of dewy softness : and his eloquent cheek, — 
Whose hue his brows of jet might well enhance, — 

Now pale, and now incarnadined, did speak 
Language, of which ne'er yet a maiden's glance 

The meaning with impunity might seek. 
His symmetry ! In it you well might trace 
Alcides' prowess, with Apollo's grace. 



34 THE STORY OF 

83. 

Thou art a tyrant, Love ! — Thou dost delight 
To plant thy missiles in enamouring tresses, 

On glowing cheeks, on brow of snowy white, 
On lips of coral, and in soft caresses, 

And thou dost take a pleasure to excite 
Passion, where fate imperiously represses 

The fond indulgence of that very aim 

Y/hich thou dost so mischievously inflame. 

84. 
Thou bringest youth together purposely; 

And laughingly dost see their passion grow : 
At first mere dalliance it seems to be ; 

Mere pastime for a summer's day to know ; 
Then, all at once, thou lay'st aside thy glee, 

And dost thyself a mailed tyrant shew, 
And spectres rise around thee, and they bear 
Poison, and swords, and symbols of despair, 

85. 
So did it fare with this enamour' d dame ; 

At first she thought only to please the sense 
Of sight, by viewing beauty, 'gainst whose claim 

To admiration none could urge pretence. 



BERITOLA. 35 

As children we forewarn from touching flame 

As dangerous, and such sport prohibit hence ; 
Or as we interdict unlawful book : 
On youth like this, so should not lady look. 

86. 
One day Currado a rich banquet gave : 

The neighbouring nobles to his castle came : — 
Tired of discourse on topics somewhat grave, 

At last to motto which his house did claim 
For its armorial blazonries, one gave 

A weak objection, urging that the same 
Of sense was destitute. To prove this, he 
A letter quotes in its orthography. 

87. 
*That day Giannotto, as it was his care, 

Right opposite to Spina, — so was named 
Currado's daughter, — stood behind a chair : 

That noble, who a fit reply had framed, 

* The whole of this narrative to stanza 89 inclusive, is taken from 
Rousseau's Confession. The incident occurred to bim while living with 
the Compte de Gouvon, and the motto to which it refers was " Tel fiert 
qui ne tue pas," which the stupid objector contended ought to be " Tel 
fier, qui ne tue pas." — Roussean was called upon for an explanation, who 
said that fiert was derived from the verb ferir, a verb then obsolete ; and 
that it was not the adjective tier mis-spelt, as the objector had supposed. 

D 2 



36 THE STORY OF 

In the youth's eye, and smile, perceived the air 
Of shrewd intelligence, and that he blamed 
The inept, and inapplicable phrase, 
Which would, from his device, one letter raze. 

88. 
" Speak,' ' cried Currado to Giannotto. Then 

Did he, with prompt sagacity, remove 
Th' objection, which the speaker with a vain, 

Illiterate misconception, tried to prove 
Adhesive to the motto. He made plain 

That the stale comment which did disapprove 
Its fashion, was with ignorance replete, 
Of spelling, and of language obsolete. 

89. 
The letter to which he exception made, 

Was th 1 adjunct of a word now used no more; 
Not an intruder, and by this small aid 

The sense original did he restore 
To that device. The company betrayed 

By lound applauses, iterate o'er and o'er, 
Surprise unfeigned, but the youth's best reward 
Sprung from a look which Spina's joy declared. 



BERITOLA. 37 

90. 

This joy was evanescent, but complete I 

'Twas one of those auspicious moments rare 

When in their natural order spirits meet : — 
Which merit trampled on awhile doth spare 

From being outraged : when heart, heart doth greet : 
And when eclipsed grandeur's distinctions are ; 

And when, as they should ever do, they find 

Their usurpation diseuthroned by mind. 

91. 

Now the first tumult of the triumph o'er, 
Urged by an affable, and speaking smile, 

Giannotto, asked by Spina, to her bore 
A cup of Cyprian wine. Alas ! the while 

She spake, the urchin god did then explore 
The means to work bis bane. He did beguile 

Him of his wonted strength so, that each limb 

Shook, and before his eyes a mist did swim. 

92. 

With tottering step, and faltering knees, and hand 
Which trembled like an aspin, did he raise 

The mantling goblet, and the god so planned 
That, at that moment, fell Currado's gaze 



38 THE STORY OF 

Full on his eye. Failed all his self-command ! 
All its red juice was spilled, and as it strays 
Down Spina's 'broidered dress, his lord's stern eye 
Banished him from his presence instantly. 

93. 

He cursed himself ! He raved, — his train he tore ! 

For he who knows the human heart can guess, 
Mortification like to this, is more 

Heavy to bear, than e'en profound distress. 
From that day forth his cheeks the symbol wore 

Of inward anguish : and his eye no less — 
Fixed on the ground, whence no keen glances broke, — 
The inward conflict of his spirit spoke. 

94. 

But Spina, (who beheld with partial eye, 

This ardent youth, and who had shrewdly guess'd 

That, for her sake, on him this obloquy 

He had entailed, though no one forward press'd 

T' entreat with her for him), — such sympathy 
Felt for him in the secret of her breast, 

That intercession none, with her, there needed 

To plead for him for whom her heart so pleaded. 



BERITOLA. 39 

95. 

And she resolved convenient time to take 
Richly the wretched youth to recompense, 

For th' open shame, which, for her dear love's sake, 
He had endured. Not many weeks from hence 

Currado, to his wife, proposed to make 
A summer's revel at fair residence 

Which, a day's journey from his castle stood, 

Embowered in thick and venerable wood. 

96. 
He had decreed that Spina too should share 

In that same recreation. Further he 
Addressed, for the first time since shame he bare, 

Giannotto with frank cordiality, 
Saying that he required him to repair — 

The next morn with a festive company — 
As he did add — " to spend a summer's day 
In tall woods which round that pavilion la£. 

97. 
The day arrived. The company repair — 

In litters some, — and some on chargers proud, 
Whose rich caparisons and trappings rare 

Gorgeously 'neath the morning sun-beams glowed: — 



40 THE STORY OF 

It happened, at that time, that ladies fair, — 

And gallant cavaliers, — a goodly crowd 
Of revellers, were assembled at his hall — 
Where then Currado held high festival. 

98. 
Beritola, — who much was usged to go — 

Inexorably kept her old resolve : — 
" It might be," she exclaimed, " some one would 
know 

" Me, 'mong so many who all there convolve 
u From parts so various ; and besides, I trow, 

" I should in an unwelcome gloom involve 
" This joyous company. I were indeed 
" Intruder there in this funereal weed." 

99. 
Little did she suspect her son was there ! 

Or she had ne'er made such excuse, I ween ; 
Exultingly not only would she bear 

Scrutiny's chilling look him to have seen, 
But dangers have defied, though such they were 

As might daunt hearts for enterprize most keen. 
The time was not yet come. Mother and son 
Have still a perilous career to run. 



BERITOLA. 41 

100. 

Arrived : they found the place in all bedight 
That well could furnish joy ance to each guest; 

Shrouded within a near wood's gloom from sight, 
A far resounding minstrelsy expressed 

All sounds inspiring amorous delight : 

Tables were spread, where richest wines, express'd 

From most luxurious vintages^ induce — 

Mantling in bowls — each one to taste their juice. 

101. 

The day was cloudless. Through the canopy 

Of matted leaves which o'er ihem were suspended, 

Glances of shifting light most sportively 

Or played upon the turf, or sometimes blended 

Their rays with gems, and crystals, daintily 

Which from the neck of high-born dames depended. 

And many a flickering beam seemed to enhance 

The swift mutations of the mazy dance. 

102. 

What saw there Spina ? Through the eager train 

Her eye was ever on one object fixed. 
'Tis a delicious time when we retain — 

By understanding which there is betwixt 



42 THE STORY OF 

Us, and a dear loved object, — such a chain 

Invisible to all, that — in that mixed, 
And giddy circle, we can, thence, defy 
Thousands, to thwart electric sympathy. 

103. 

*Perhaps, at no time Love does more impart 
Delicious feeling to the human breast; 

Than, when it is contrived, with furtive art, 
That among multitudes shall be expressed 

By under tones, by side-long looks, that heart 
To heart is linked. Love then is doubly blessed. 

It feels superior to the uninspired 

Mortals around, and is with deep trust fired. 

104. 

Besides, the mystery that hovers round, 
Enhances its deliciousness ! E'en so 

Did Spina feel, and so her heart did bound — 
As her eye following him, when to and fro 



* Perhaps, of all the intimations of love none are so piquant as those 
gracefully conveyed by an under manner in a miscellaneous society : the 
object of these intimations enjoys the complicated transport of gratified 
affections, of affections gratified with mystery, and of a feeling of trium- 
phant superiority to all the uninspired mortals by whom he is surrounded. 
— Isabel, 1 vol. p. IT. 



BERITOLA. 43 

Giannotto went, and his form did confound 

Or distance, or the crowds that come and go — 
E'en for a moment, if he re-appear ! 
New charm her eye, new music smites her ear. 

105. 

The scene becomes more gay, more soothing sweet 

The liquid notes of music on the air 
Seem with a latent melody replete : 

And when she sees him in her presence there, 
It is a joy to her when others greet 

Her look, her dress, or e'en her converse share 
With seeming approbation. — Love so fills 
Her heart with joy, that it on ail distils. 

106. 
After that banquet, when each several guest, 

Now warm with wine and mirth and powers of song, 
Had, or in knots met; or again addressed 

Himself to the blithe dance, or had among 
Those woods, reclining on his leman's breast, 

Breathed out soft love tales, — Spina, — when that 
throng 
As she believed, were most on pastime bent, — 
A conscious look towards Giannotto sent. 



44 THE STORY OF 

107. 

He understood her. She had in his hand, 
That morning* thrust a paper, which invited 

Him to repair to her, when most that band 
Of blithesome revellers appeared delighted 

With the day's pleasure. Further she had planned 
So her injunctions, so with care indited 

Twin path-ways terminating in one spot : 

That he not one particular had forgot. 

108. 
Two roads, in opposite directions, led, 

By paths, which made a circle when conjoined, 
To an unobvious, and straw-built shed, 

Round which the beech and lime so thickly twined, 
Which was with yew and holly so o'erspread, 

That 'neath its wall of leaves no eye could find 
Its rough substratum, or could e'en have guessed 
Coarser integuments their shade compressed. 

109. 

Within 'twas lined with moss, a seat of moss 
Girded th' interior, and beneath the feet 

R ush-woven matting lay. The dainty gloss 
Of virgin bower, and jasmine with its sweet, 



BERITOLA. 45 

And faint, frail buds, its little porch emboss, 

Clematis there, with pyrancanthus meet ; 
So that this little grot was fit abode 
For hamadryad, or some sylvan god. 

110, 

A brawling brook before its entrance played, 

Whose murmur, mixed with warbling of the birds 

Themselves disporting in that leafy shade, 
To him who comes to muse there, oft affords 

Delicious harmony. Here love-sick maids 
Dwelling on all their unimpaired hoards 

Of passionate tenderness, whole summer day 

Might like, in listlessness, to dream away. 

111. 

Hither came Spina, and in little space 
Here also came Giannotto; but I grieve 

To say, not unseen by an eye whose trace, 

Though at safe distance, watched them as they leave 

That joyous company ; e'en in the chace 
As the sagacious greyhound doth perceive 

The track of timid leveret: so, fond pair, 

One through that leafy labyrinth tracks you there. 



46 THE STORY OF 

112. 

Scarce to the youth, and dame was leisure lent 

To give their full hearts' utterance, scarce the store 

T' unlock of tenderness, which long restraint 
Caused like a brimming' cup to mantle o'er, 

Ere vexed Currado, though with speed, with faint, 
And cautious step, their shelter doth explore, 

And so to learn the extent of what he fears 

In ambush lies, and all their converse hears. 

113. 

Yes, there he watches them, and there he finds 
That they have fixed to meet in jasmine bower 

That doth a gallery terminate which winds 
Beneath the windows of that castle tower 

In which fair Spina sleeps, when slumber binds 
This festal train, at midnight's witching hour: 

That they have fixed to meet there, and contrive 

The means their smothered love to keep alive. 

114. 

Should he now interrupt this interview, 

The consequence would be his daughter's love, 

Which he would fain no creature ever knew, 
Would be the theme of all : the thought doth move 



BERITOL4* 47 

Him to delay till night — of an armed crew 
Of ruffians ambushed in that very grove, 
Whom he had there dispatched this pair to seize — 
To ask assistance for his purposes. 

115. 

And more was he to this determined, since 
He from their converse gathered, that no fear 

He need to entertain of consequence 
Fatal to Spina's spotless character. 

Yet since he finds, not from indifference, 
But rather since she is esteemed too dear 

E'en for love's questionable impusles, 

Her safety springs, him rage the more convulses. 

116. 

Yet does he tarry till their converse ended; 

The day was now declining, ere content 
With what has past, and with a hope that blended 

A deeper expectation with the event 
Of their next interview, their steps they bended 

Each different ways, towards the spot, whence rent 
The air itself, till th' echoing woods reply, 
Each various sound of festive revelry. 



48 



THE STORY OF 



117. 

Thence bursts of laughter peal. Thence minstrelsies, 
Or rise in swell symphonious, or prolong 

The tender lapsing cadence till it dies, 

Like panting summer gale the leaves among 

Which scarcely flutter at its amorous sighs : — 

Thence sounds of various converse ; and the strong 

Redoubling of applauses echoing deep 

Into the woods ; in one loud chorus sweep. 

118. 

Currado from his lurking place stole forth ; 

And such his bearing that no one might trace 
The secret burthen, which of all that mirth 

Destroyed the charm; and robbed of every grace 
The fair nymphs converse, who with trick some mirth 

To dalliance challenged him. Through all that 
space 
Of anxious expectation, he conceals, 
E'en from his spouse, the trouble that he feels. 

119. 

Spina, Giannotto, 'neath the moon that night 
Decreed to plight their vows. A gallery — 

Where odorous trailing plants the smell delight, 
As they their tendrils twine luxuriantly 



BERITOLA. 49 

Around its dainty trellice — which cloth quite 

That portion of the dwelling occupy 
In which their rooms are placed, it is decreed 
Shall be fit minister to such a deed* 

120. 

At the far end of this, you may descend 
By a few marble stairs, and there is placed 

A fair pavilion where all luxuries blend 

With which a spot should be, or can be, graced, 

To passion consecrate : round it depend 

Rich crimson draperies, through whose gold- 
inlaced, 

And blazoned tissues, the sun's radiance glows 

Soft as the softest bloom of Sharez rose* 

121. 

Columns of porphyry suppoit its roof: 

On which the sculptor with his cunning hand 

Had formed a tracery of daintiest woof : 
Within its centre did a fountain stand, 

Whose perfumed waters, as 'twere their behoof 
From one source all the senses to command, 

By freshness, melody, and scent were graced, 

By cooling touch, and by delicious taste. 

E 



50 



THE STORY OF 



122. 

Flowers of all sorts there stood in porcelain jars ; 

Or round these shafts of marble were enwreathed ; 
The rose, the musky violet, the stars 

Of the frail jasmine there profusely breathed. — 
Birds from far climes glance there in mimic wars, 

Or frolic loves, in golden wire-work sheathed, 
Green, orange, blue, gold, crimson, every dye 
Of plumed magnificence, there met the eye. 

123. 

There odorous frankincense for ever burned : 
Around its walls were satin cushions piled, 

Which, — while the eye their rich device discerned 
With wonder — by their amplitude beguiled, — 

And their luxurious softness, — him who yearned 
For daintiest repose, on them to have coiled 

His charmed limbs. Such was the fair retreat 

In which this pair had doomed at night to meet. 

124. 

A hush doth now o'er all the revels steal : 
Yet still the music floats upon the breeze, 

Which e'en as if the leaves themselves did feel, 
Gushes, in languid lapsings, from the trees. 



BERITOLA. 51 

As its soft notes through tender twilight peei 

Itseeras to die away in cadences 
Fitting 1 the hour; and that hour to it lent, 
Or from it caught, a deeper blandishment. 

125. 

The distant laugh, the titter of some girl 

Who listens to a sheepish paramour; 
The very tones of revelry; the whirl 

Of the gay dance, at that bewitching hour 
Seem on the ear like tripping brook to purl: 

To unison, by nature's awful power 
Fused are they, till like faint stars' distant light 
They modify, not break, the gloom of night. 

126. 

The moon now sheds upon the silvery leaves 

f A gentle radiance, and the wind seems hushed, 

Except where whisperingly, whence foliage weaves 

A bower for it to nestle in, it gushed 
As o'er informed with scents which it receives 

From buds and blossoms which profusely blushed 
Upon their teeming stalks. Where 'tis not pent 
In such an ambush, sleeps that element. 

e 2 



52 



THE STORY OF 



127. 

Now one by one that company retires 

Each to his downy couch : — not Spina so : — 

She sits upon that gallery, and soft fires — 
Mild as those silvery splendours that now flow 

From the moon's crystal face — with her desires 
So interknead a superhuman glow, — 

A tenderness on her shed so intense, — 

Against love's risks its depth seems best defence. 

128. 
Yes, there is that in the calm face of night 

Which while to passions depth it doth impart 
A greater depth, doth with such exquisite, 

And holy tenderness, refine the heart, 
Especially when the pale moon's clear light, 

Mellows down forms, till, spirit like, athwart 
The gloom of night they gleam, — that in it lies 
Which love at once augments and purifies. 

129. 
She hears Giannotto's *tep. 'Twas his indeed ! 

How soft it falls on her expecting ear ! 
Her heart responsive beats to every tread, 

W 7 hose smothered lapse scarce tells her he is there. 



BERITOLA* 53 

Just at that moment did a moon-beam shed 

Upon her sylphy'd form its lustre clear. 
Her snow white dress so softly round her gleams, 
She seems a creature born of heavenly dreams. 

130. 

She hears Giannotto's step. 'Twas his indeed ! 

The love they plighted there I need not tell. 
Nought could their depth of tenderness exceed. 

Except the depth of that strong principle 
Which made each feel that there was not a need 

For either, in their self defence, the spell 
Of honour to invoke. With such deep awe 
On both their bosoms was engraved its law, 

131. 

That not e'en all the soft embrace of love; 

Not e'en fond kisses, and e'en fonder sighs ; 
Not e'en those moon-beams soft as plumes of dove; 

Nor softer glances of their tear-lit eyes ; 
Not e'en the breeze which seems to bid them prove 

Those transports which its breath doth eulogize ; 
Not each; — not all of these together; — urge 
Them to o'erstep honour's tremendous verge* 



54 THE STORY OF 

132. 

Currado mad with rage, when he had first 

Learned that the dame had not a thought disguised 

From her beloved Giannotto, then did burst 

On the fond pair. — Though they were sore sur- 
prised, 

And little pleased so soon to have dispersed 
All their fond dream of love, yet enfranchised 

As they felt they were, from dishonouring aim, 

'Twas sorrow that they rather felt than shame. 

133. 

Whether it be, as Bards have often sung 
That lofty thoughts give secret warrantry 

Of lofty birth ; and thus those who are sprung 
Of generous lineage, inly justify 

In high pretensions; whether that the tongue 
W ill, of the lofty, still speak loftily, 

And a high heart be, as it seems to me, 

Nature's inalienable mystery. 

134. 

Such theme, more fit for philosophic school, 
Than for the muse to dwell on, we will waive ; 

And here assert alone that by no rule 
That discipline or courtesy e'er gave, 



BERITOLA. 55 

Or pride of birth could dictate, could a cool, 

Manly deportment, self collected, brave, 
Be gained, that did the noble pride exceed 
Of young Giannotto in that hour of need. 

135. 

But vexed Currado not a word would hear — 
Giannotto told him, — if he would permit, 

That, at meet time, and place, he, to his ear, 
The secret of his lineage would commit. 

That when 'twere known to him, it would appear 
That, though his station now was menial, fit 

Was he, and honourably might he claim, 

The hand of Spina, or of loftiest darae. 

136. 

To reason was Currado deaf. Or ere 

He hither had repaired, he gave command 

To several of his followers, who with cheer 
Aught that was hurtful to Giannotto planned, 

To hide themselves whence they his cause might 
hear: — 
The signal fixed on given, this servile band 

Fell on the youth while asking to be heard; 

And in a lonely dungeon him immured. 



56 THE STORY OF 

137. 

Spina they also seized ; and in a cell 

Noisome, and dark did they constrain to lie ; 

Her father did not to her mother tell 

Where she was thrust: the hard ground did supply 

Her only bed : and though her salt tears fell, 
No hand was there to wipe them : though a sigh 

Oft from her heaving heart, as if 'twould break 

Did hurst ; no one on her did pity take. 

138. 

When as her mother asked where she might be, — 
Currado told of her unworthy love; — 

And that she was imprisoned: — further she 
Could not by any means in pity move 

Him to divulge to her : thus silently 

Her grief maternal smothering, did she prove 

Had she not in Beritola found a friend — 

Pangs fierce as those which did her daughter rend. 

139. 

Yet she had this to succour her. Besides 
She had a bed, food, raiment, and a home! 

But where the heart is wounded, it derides 
The little comforts which from wealth can come. 



BERITOLA. 57 

How did she Jong to know where now abides 

Poor Spina : that she might, — or share her gloom — 
Or might, by gentle sympathy, decrease 
Pangs from that thrall which she would fain release. 

140. 

It was a woeful sight to see that dame 

Who erst so splendidly was dress'd, and seemed 

So blithesome in her manners ; who did shame 
All rival beauties by a grace that beamed 

In all she said and did, so that to claim 

Likeness to her in word or deed was deemed 

Distinction's height, — it was a sight most sad 

To see her pale, and shrunk, and coarsely clad! 

141. 

Worse fares Giannotto. For the fetid damp 
Exhaling from his dungeon, so impairs 

His senses and his health, that, like frail lamp 
Which when extinguishing but feebly flares, 

His life seems passing from him : yet the stamp 
Of innate dignity his mien still bears : 

His grief unuttered in his heart he keeps ; 

And for poor Spina only sighs and weeps. 



58 THE STORY OF 

142. 

His sleep forsook him, and the little dole 

Of bread and water, which his frame sustained, 

He scarce could touch. Despair was in his soul; 
And in his dumb demeanour proudly reigned. 

Ah, what can man's unnatural heart controul, 
Thus, from that casket rich, what it contained 

Of richest value, — his intrepid heart,— 

Thus piece-meal to purloin with fiend-like art? 

143. 

Poor Spina ! Her grief was of milder mood : — 
She often wept, and as she wept she sung 

Some woeful ditty which expressed in rude, 

And uncouth rhyme, a fate like that which wrung 

Her youthful heart : and oft, as she pursued 
The artless strain, a sob was heard among 

Her woeful melody, if aught displays 

Her own experience in another's phrase. 

144. 

And sometimes when her grief could least be cheered, 
Her voice was heard like maniac's wildering 
strain; 

So wild it was that it might well be feared 
That one who could so passionately plain 



BERITOLA. 59 

Was broken hearted ; and whate'er appeared 

In future fate, could never know again 
A tranquil moment, 01 a mind at ease; — 
Wild was her melody as gusty seas ! 

145. 

Two years had they in this captivity 

Been now immured, when Carlos' hateful sway 

Was shaken off throughout all Sicily : — 
Gladdened at heart Currado w r as, the day 

When first the fame of this to him did flee, 
For of the Ghibbilines had he alway 

Been the warm advocate. His lonely guest, 

When she heard this, unwonted cheer expressed. 

146. 

Giannotto now so long had prisoner been, 

That those who envied him when they perceived 

How partially by Spina he was seen, 
Inly some pity for his fate conceived : 

One of his keepers, who, with gentler mien, 
Had now and then by little cares relieved 

The heavy yoke of his captivity ; 

Informed him of this change in Sicily. 



60 THE STORY OF 

147. 
" Alas," he cried, " I, who, for fourteen years, 

"A wretched wanderer, rambling through the earth, 
" Have led a wretched life — now this appears, — 

" Whence once I hoped life's joys might all have 
birth ! 
" Now it appears — and finds me chilled with fears — 

" Deprived of all which gives to being worth. 
" 'Reft of that liberty which only could 
" Make me hear this as loyal subject should." 

148. 
" How," said the keepers, " how can rise or fall 

" Of mighty kings, have reference to thee, 
" And to thy abject state ?" The wretched thrall 

Then cried, " Dost thou thus mock my agony? 
" Thou tear'st my heart, when thou dost thus recal 

" The stake that my dear father formerly 
" Had in the fate of Sicily ! What wrought 
" Its king's fall, ruin on my father brought." 

149. 

" For though 1 then was young, I yet retain 

" The recollection, that, ere I did fly 
" From thence, while Manfred there as king did reign 

" My father was a chief in Sicily." 



BERITOLA. 61 

<c Who might thy father be ?" then asked again 

The keeper. — " I may now," did he reply, 
" This tell to thee, since that fate now 1 feel, 
" The fear of which made me his name conceal," 

150. 

" Bertholdo was my father called, and so 
" Is he called still, if he be living" yet, 

fl Guisfredi is my real name: although 
" In order to escape the very fate 

" Which now 1 bear, all here who've seen me, know 
" Me by another name ; and of high state 

" And large esteem, I doubt not, for his sake, 

" That I should yet in Sicily partake." 

151. 

The keeper said no more : but from thence he 
Went quickly to Currado, and he told 

All that Giannotto spake of Sicily, 

And of the state, which he said he should hold 

Should he that isle revisit. Silently 
Currado listened while he did unfold 

His tale, which though most earnestly he heard, 

No wonder he betrayed by look or word. 



62 THE STORY OF 

152. 

But straightway to Beritola he went, 

And asked her if she e'er had had a son 

By name Guisfredi. She, who, his intent, 
Little suspected, answered, with a groan, 

"" Had it pleased heaven what once to me it lent, 
" Still to preserve to me, e'en such an one, 

*' And such his name, now in his twentieth year 

" Were living, my declining days to cheer." 

153. 

Currado, when he heard this, doubted not 
That what Giannotto had affirmed was true, 

And now the thought that he at once might blot 
Out his own shame, and that of Spina too; 

And that fair opportunity he got 

By which much mercy he might likewise shew; 

Thence without further parley he commands 

Giannotto's presence. He before him stands. 

154. 

Currado finding all he thought was true, 

And grieving that a youth of generous blood 

He thus had outraged, did to him renew 

Proffers of friendship, and while thus he stood, 



BERITOLA. 63 

Told him, that, if he would, with honour due, 

Take Spina as his wife, and thus make good 
That which, in hour of dalliance, he had vowed, 
With his free pleasure it was now allowed. 

155. 

He somewhat spake of past disloyalty; 

Of that which servants to their masters owe, 
And though he had an untold mystery 

Which somewhat did enfranchize him from low, 
And base subjection, " yet so long," said he, 

" As thou in outward form thyself didst shew 
" To be my servant, so long had I claim 
" From thee of honour, not a purposed shame." 

156. 

And then he spake of grant of fair estates, 
And patrimonial wealth, all which, he said, 

Since he no son possessed, my daughter waits — 
If thou her husband be — when I am dead. 

Giannotto who with ill grace tolerates 

A theme, which seemed upon his truth to shed 

Grievous disparagement, with speech abrupt 

Did thus his declamation interrupt. 



64 THE STORY OF 

157. 

" Thy gifts be to thyself ! Of my best years, 
" Hast thou the best part shorn of life and grace ; 

u I loved thy daughter, and that love still cheers, 
" And long hath cheered, the dreary dwelling place 

" To which thou hast consigned me. With deaf ears 
" When I was anxious from thy heart to chace 

46 Base disesteem, — thou turnedst from my suit, 

" xlnd sent'st me from thee desolate, and mute/' 

158. 
" I loved thy daughter, and shall ever love ! 

" But, old man, which the greater crime is, think, 
" When the strong fires of youthful passions move 

" To speak as nature teaches, or to sink 
** An ardent spirit, which would scorn to prove 

" A recreant to its honour, which would shrink 
" From shame as from a lep'rous plague — to doom 
" A heart like this to self consuming gloom 1" 

159. 
" W 7 hich is the greater crime or thus to act, — 

" Or for a youth to love in life's warm spring, 
46 When not to be a lover is, in fact, 

" Not to be worthy love from any thing ? — 



BERITOLA. 65 

" Have I committed aught against the pact 
" Of universal nature ? Hath the sting 
" Of torment, or of death, on any one, 
" Resulted from a deed that I have done ? 

160. 
" Proud should I be t' obtain thy daughter's hand I 

" And thee to honour for that daughter's sake ! 

But speak, I pray thee not, of house or land, 

" Or fair estate, — or dowry, — though it make 
" Her e'en the wealth of Croesus to command ! 

" Love's the reward of Lovers ! — and I take 
" Thy gift — if thou give her — with ecstacy ! 
" Without her — all beside were mockery ! 

161. 

Currado (though — like most, from earliest youth, 
Who have been spoiled by undisputed sway, — 

He was with power intoxicate) in truth 
Who had a noble heart, and sooth to say, 

His past demeanour with unmingled ruth 

Towards Guisfredi viewed, pleased did survey 

One doomed to wed his daughter, had a spirit, 

Which, — what it gain'd by fortune — claim'd by merit. 



66 THE STORY OF 

162. 

Currado nothing said ! But with a strong, 
And tender grasp, he to his hosom pressed 

Guisfredi, who, with persecution long, 

He, as his victim, held. With shame oppressed, 

With downcast eye, and with a faltering tongue, 
His quivering lips some faint excuse expressed. 

Guisfredi, far too lofty pleased to be 

With shame of others, this feigned not to see. 

163. 

Spina was now released ; but thin, and pale, 
The ghost of what she was, she seemed to be ; 

Yet still Guisfredi joyfully did hail — 

Forlorn as was her aspect — her, whom he 

Had loved in other days. The wondrous tale 
Of what had chanced, Currado did decree, 

To be concealed, e'en till a little space 

Had re-produced the lovers' wonted grace. 

164. 

Yet, to Guisfredi, 'twas a spectacle 
Far more affecting to behold her thus, 

Than 'twas to see her, when, the theme of all, 
She was, not only, of the envious, 



BERITOLA. G, 

But, of the world at large, the general 

Instance of destiny propitious. 
He then admired : but pity love creates, 
Which, for dimm'd beauty, more than compensates. 

1C5. 
Yes ! 'twas to him a most affecting sight 

To see her pale and shrunken ! For bis sake 
He knew that she had thus sustained a blight 

Of all, which usually in young breasts wake 
Dreams of impassioned love. An exquisite, 

A permeating tenderness did shake 
The very pillars of his inmost life, 
When he, in such tried mistress, saw his wife. 

160. 
And far, far more he loved her, than when she 

Gorgeous, with jewels decked, before him stood ; 
Now she appealed to that deep sympathy 

Which he had learned, schooled, by the lessons 
rude, 
And bitter conflicts, of adversity ! 

She was to him a hallowed thing endued 
With consecration, whose entire revealing 
Was privilege attached to fellow feeling. 
f 2 



68 THE STORY OF 

167. 

One morn Currado to Beritola went, 

And asked her how she might the bliss abide 

If fortune towards her should so much relent, 
Not only that her son might be espied 

By her, but also that from banishment 

He should with him bring Spina as his bride? 

To whom the dame — u To see that son were dear 

"As life itself, and so seen dearer were V ' 

168. 
Then said he to his wife — " And what wouldst thou 

" Say, gentle lady, furnished thus to be 
" With son-in-law, husband of her whom now 

" Thou mournest as a creature lost to thee ?" 
His wife replied, " Whoe'er it is, I trow, 

" To whom thou dost thy preference decree, 
" He shall have mine, whether his blood be pure, 
" Or if he be of parentage obscure. 

169. 
" Yet canst thou doubt a moment, thus to see 

" My daughter, and from thy hand to receive 
" With her a son-iu-law, would be to me, 

" Not only from long sorrow a reprieve, 



BERITOLA. bb» 

" But consummation of felicity ! 

M I will not now repeal, that which would grieve 
" Thyself to hear, how much for her I've felt: — 
** Thus recompense for this were richly dealt !" 

170. 

Then said Currado — " In a few day's space 
" Both of your hearts I hope to satisfy !" 

Meanwhile beholding that each furrowed trace 
Of sorrow, and corroding agony, 

Had left Guisfredi's, and his daughter's face ; 
And seeing both apparelled daintily, 

He of the former asked, " What joy could vie 

" With thine, if here thy mother met thine eye?'* 

171. 

He answered,. " I can scarce think that despair, 
" Which must so long have weighed upon her 
breast, 

** Permits her yet to breathe the vital air : — 
" But if mine eyes may yet be so far blest 

" As to see her, the gladness that I share 
" "Would be redoubled, if her smiles attest 

" An union, which, to me doth seem to bring 

" All joys, from heaven's munificence which spring," 



70 THE STORY OF 

172. 

The ladies then were caUed. Beritok 
Who of Giannotto often had been told, 

And who had heard that he in prison lay, 
Since Spina he with passion dared behold, 

Knowing that this was he, did then betray — 
As did Currado's lady— manifold 

Symptoms of wonder, at what seemed a change 

So unaccountable to them, and strange. 

173. 

But by some hints which from Currado fell — 
And recollecting what he had premised 

About her son ; — she felt as if a spell 

Hovered around the youth; till enfranchized 

From hesitation, by a mark, full well 

Remembered on his brow, she recognized 

Her eldest son. With open arms she fled 

Towards him, as towards one brought back from 
the dead. 

174. 

To this did many questions fond succeed, 
Ail which did more and more elucidate 

The wondrous truth : though there was little need 
For much enquiry, for a passionate, 



BERITOLA. 71 

And earnest instinct, did intensely plead 
In either breast ; each had an intimate 
Feeling — from word, look, gesture-— understood 
At once, of kindness, and connatural blood. 

175. 

Currado, now, to all his family, 

Triumphantly of this alliance spake; 

And so to give to it solemnity ; 

And, much as in him lies, that he may make 

Some reparation for th' indignity 

Heaped on Guisfredi ; further for the sake 

Of adding to the tie a public fame; 

A solemn marriage feast doth he proclaim. 

176. 

Guisfredi hearing this, with earnest tone, 

Exclaimed " Currado, you have nobly done ; — 

" By your means, I, who did in prison groan, 
" The height of human happiness have won. 

" My mother even had she been your own 

" Could you have honoured more than you have 
done ? 

" To make all perfect ; having in the past 

" Given what you could, give what you can at last. 



72 THE STORY OF 

177. 

" With Guasparini, with whom, — as I've said,- 
" I once did dwell ; still dwells, as I believe 

" My younger brother ; I beseech your aid 
" Him from his thrall in Genoa to retrieve. 

" Further let bridal revels be delayed 

" Till news of him my mother's care relieve. 

" 'Tis but imperfect joy, the sight of one, 

" To a mother who laments a second son L 

178. 

" Further, to Sicily do thou consent — 

" At the same time — to send a messenger; — 

" The change in the Sicilian Government, 
" If still my father live, the harbinger 

" Of joy to him must be : in such event 
" Could he my mother's safety too infer 

" It must be clear, as his to us would be, 

" 'Twere cause of augmentation to his glee J* 

179. 

With general approbation all receive 
Of filial and fraternal love this proof; 

He who to Genoa goes, finds that still live 
Scacciato and the nurse beneath the roof 



BEMTOLA. 7Z 

Of Guasparini, who could scarce believe 

The news with which in that young man's behoof 
The messenger was charged, till he had heard 
By the confronted nurse its truth averred, 

180. 
An only child, an heiress rich, and fair, 

Had Guasparini ; he bestowed her hand 
On Scacciato, and, with this young pair, 

Embarked from Genoa in a galley manned 
With his own people. Need I to declare 

The joy, — too deep for those to understand 
Who friends, that they thought lost, have ne'er 

regained, — 
Which in these re-united spirits reigned ? 

181. 

If this could even for a while suspend 

Thy fixed expression of solemnity, 
Thy deep, and stubborn melancholy blend 

Beritola, with soft hilarity. 
If 'twere imperative enough to bend 

A rooted habitude of misery, 
What must it be on each whose bounding breast 
The elasticity of youth possessed ? 



74 THE STORY OF 

182. 

In all that joy why should we overlook 

That faithful nurse ? Of all the long tried friend ! 
For twice seven years nothing her purpose shook 

To bear her burthen to its destined end. 
She never inadvertently mistook 

What to th' accomplishment might chiefly tend 
Of her soul's purpose, safety of that child ! 
For twice seven years her faith had been its shield. 

183. 

First at her mistress and Guisfredi looks 

This faithful creature, then Scacciato eyes; — 

And oft the well pleased mother she invokes 
Whether she thinks that she could recognize 

Her eldest born. Then those whom fortune yokes 
With the two youths,' — those two fair dames, — she 
spies, 

While oft between her muttering lips is heard, 

" Two such youths, two such brides,were never paired." 

184. 
While at a banquet they were all convened, 

The messenger returned from Sicily, 
Who brought the news Bertholdo had regained 

His rich demesnes, from prison long set free. 



BERITOLA. 70 

And that most ardent wish he entertained, 

Once more his long lost wife and sons to see ; 
From whom for twice seven years it now had been 
*He had not message heard, or letter seen. 

185. 

This messenger reported that a ship 

Filled with Bertholdo's friends, steered thitherward ; 
And that, or ere the sun in ocean dip 

His westering orb, that bark will not retard 
Its swift return. " Bertholdo's quivering lip," 

Cries he, " can scarcely find appropriate word 
" To speak th' impatience whose keen agonies, 
" Burst forth in flashes from his eager eyes. ,, 

186. 
Then the nurse bustled that all things might be 

Duly prepared, or ere they did embark ; 
Her eye at once seems every thing to see ! 

Such circumspection every act doth mark ; 
Together with a will so totally 

Bent upon others' service ; — such a spark 
Of new lit fire is in her aged eye ; — 
And so refreshed is her activity, 

* Ne messo n'udii, r,e lettera ne tolsi.— Arlosto, 34 canto, 42 stanza. 



76 THE STORY OF 

187. 
It does one good to look at her ! Or ere 

I quit this theme, let me one word to thee 
Devote, thou being whom without a tear 

I scarce can think on ! From their memory 
Can it be e'er effaced, who in the sphere 

Of early life have seen old age thus free 
From self reflection ? Can those who have proved 
Such care from age, its portrait see unmoved ? 

188. 
Scarce had that messenger his story told, 

Or ere Bertholdo's delegates appeared ; 
Many fond salutations they unfold; 

The spirit of Beritola they cheered, 
Assuring her, by signals manifold, 

That their Lord hoped e'en till he almost yfcara/, 
With such an ardent spirit did he yearn 
For the blessed moment of their wished return ! 

189. 
From him then many greetings they expressed — 

Both to Currado and his wife, and prayed, 
That, for the honour done to their lorn guest, 

All that a grateful spirit could have said 



BERITOLA. 77 

Might, tlieir acceptance meet ! Then they addressed 

To Guasparini, that which well repaid 
His daughter's free espousals, courteously ;— 
And sureties were for their lord's amity ! 

190. 
When Sicily they left, Scacciato\s fate 

Unknown was to Bertholdo : therefore these 
Could only pledge themselves from intimate 

Acquaintance with his thoughts, that much 'twould 
please 
Him to receive his daughter as the mate 

Of Scacciato : thus in courtesies 
Reciprocally shewn, this band of friends ; — 
And interchange of kindly office, — blends. 

191. 

The banquet ended, towards the neighbouring strand. 
Where lay the bark, — attended by their host, 

And by his spouse, and by a friendly band, — 
Beritola, her sons, and her loved most, 

By side of each, hand closely locked in hand, 

And that old nurse, repaired. A pang engrossed 

Their hearts at parting, but the happy thought 

Of him they soon should meet swift comfort brought ! 



78 THE STORY OF 

192. 

The Goats, I need not say, were not forgot ! 

These had the links been ; from them had been 
drawn 
The little slender thread which bound the lot 

Of present joy, to that which marked the dawn 
Of their adventurous lives. Thus as a goat 

A female life saved, may not hence be drawn 
Fitly, the lesson, that we ne'er are wise, 
So long as trifling agents we despise. 



THE 



DUKE D'ORMOND 



A TRAGEDY. 



ADVERTISEMENT- 



TILL the following Tragedy had gone through the 
press to page 192, it did not occur to the Author to 
contrive that the Duke D'Ormond and the Marchioness 
de Mielcour should be married. The former arrange- 
ment was painful to the Author for reasons that need 
not be mentioned, but it was not till such a progress as 
he has already stated had been made in the printing of 
the Tragedy, that any feasible plan of altering the plot 
occurred to him. To make the Duke D'Ormond pro- 
pose marriage after such a recent attachment as he is 
represented to have had, and with such positive engage- 
ments, to another, would give an air of deliberate trea- 
chery to his character, which is inconsistent with the 
view which the Author wishes the reader to take of it ; 
to make Courtenaye propose such a step would be in the 
highest degree unnatural, and inconsistent with the 



furtherance of all his schemes ; nothing therefore re- 
mained but a spurious marriage, which Courtenaye 
hypocritically recommends. It is natural to suppose 
that the first idea of this suggested itself to Courtenaye 
about the time that the soliloquy takes place in the third 
act, page 169, and the Author requests that the reader 
will be kind enough, after the perusal of the first line 
of the above-mentioned page, to insert the following 
addition : — 

To-night, — Duke D'Ormond's feelings, as I know, 

Are ripe for this, — to-night, yes, yes, this night, — 

Shall they be joined in ties irrevocable. 

The appearance of this lady, first to me 

This scheme suggested. Yes, he shall not see her, 

Till he have placed between himself and her 

A barrier insurmountable. I meant 

But by a snare of gallantry t'entrap him. 

From this he may escape. But if they be 

Married, — ah married ! Then such sanctity 

The law, his conscience, and the prejudice 

Of all conditions to this tie attach, 

Ah then, in vain will this his earliest mistress, 

So opportunely at this instant found, 

E'en though she be a kneeling suppliant, plead 

For a renewal of his love. I see 

It all. I'll to a priest, now I have done 

With Despard. To the yielding Marchioness 

Then will I hasten with the holy man : 

And since I know they're ripe for any scheme 



That gives a pledge of permanence to their passion, 
E'en while the iron's hot, — I'll strike the blow !— ^ 
And, ere the day be passed, I'll so frame things 
They shall be bound in everlasting ties. 

In act the third, page 158, the scene between Des- 
pard and Courtenaye should be supposed to take place at 
the House of the former, and not at the Hotel of the 
Marchioness de Mielcour. The mistake of the present 
arrangement originated in the omission of a scene be- 
tween that in which the Marchioness and Courtenaye, 
and that in which the latter and Despard meet, and the 
forgetting to adjust the minor mechanism of the piece 
to that omission. Courtenaye should go to the house of 
Despard, and not Despard come to that of the Mar- 
chioness, and the reader is requested to make this ima* 
ginary transfer in the perusal of the Tragedy. 



THE DUKE D'ORMOND. 



A TRAGEDY. 



La fede unqua non deve esser eorrotfa, 
O data a un solo, o data insieme a inille ; 

E cosi in una selva, in una grotta, 
Lontan dalle cittade, e dalle ville ; 

Come dinanzi a tribunali in frotta 
Di testimon, di scritti, & di postille ; 

Senza guirare, o segno altro, piu espresso, 

Basti una volta, che s'abbia profinesso. 

Ariosto, Canto 21, Stanza 2. 

How like a hateful ape 
Detected, grinning, midst his pilfer'd hoard, 
A cunning man appears, whose secret frauds 
Areopen'dtotheday! scorn'd, hooted, mock'd! 
Scorn'd by the very fools who most admired 
His worthless art. But when a great mind falls, 
The noble nature of man's generous heart 
Doth bear him up against the shame of ruin : 
With gentle censure using but his faults 
As mcdest means to introduce his praise ; 
For pity like a dewy twilight comes 
To close th' oppressive splendour of his day, 
And they who but admired him in his height, 
Hisalter'd state lament, and love him fallen. 

Basil, a Tragedy by Joanna Bafflie. 
Last scene, last act. 



82 



The Scene is at Paris. — The Action of (he Play 
is supposed to take place about the year 1572. 



Bramatfe ^monee. 

Men. 

Duke D'Ormond. 

Count Colville, his friend. 

Courtenaye, really Villeneuve. 

Despard, n 7 - 

I boon companions oj 

DoRICOURT, > _. 

_ „ T \ Courtenaye, 

Devalville, J 

Le Charier. 



Women. 

Julia Villeneuve, 
Marchioness de Mielcour. 



N.B. Wherever commas are prefixed (thus ") the passage may, 
without injury to the thread of the piece, be omitted at the discretion 
of the reader. 



THE DUKE D'ORMOND. 

-—**o**- 

A TRAGEDY. 

SCENE THE FIRST. 

A banqueting room. Table spread with a dessert ; 
bottles, glasses, Sfc 9 

Courtenaye, Despard, Doricourt, and De 
Valville, afterwards fkDuKE D'Ormond. 

DORICOURT. 

WHAT a changed man is D'Ormond ! 

COURTENAYE. 

Changed ? What mean you ? 

1)E VALVILLE. 

It is most easy to conceive his meaning. 

COURTENAYE. 

That which my duller faculties conceive not, 
To your more quick ones may be obvious. 

G 2 



84 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

DORICOURT. 

Well acted, on my life! Why, Courtenaye, how 
When pupil to so finished an instructor, 
Should IVOrmond not be changed? 

COURTENAYE. 

Good gentlemen, 
I do not quite conceive your aim. 

DE VALVILLE. 

" Not quite !" 
By this " not quite" you only mean to say, 
That you somewhat too pointedly conceive it. 

COURTENAYE. 

A truce with such equivocating" phrase: 
Explain. 

DOR1COURT. 

Aye freely ! When Duke D'Orinond first 
Came hither, his deportment was most solemn, 
His air was more unbending and mysterious, 
Than that of any man 1 e'er conversed with. 
If to a jest you utterance gave, he must 
With metaphysic argument reply to't. 
Was there a hint of raillery on our part, 
'Twas followed up on his with a discussion 
In formal terms, all marshalled as a corps 
Of engineers, storming a garrison. 



A TRAGEDY. 85 

Were he new garmented, it cost his friends 
A hundred theories on the blest exemption 
Of Paradise, from all disguise of art. 
And this or that costume, as learnedly 
Discussed he, as he were fit nomenclature 
Adapting to some new discovered science. 
Not without syllogism could he eat; 
Drink sans hypothesis ; or e'en make love 
Till he had weighed the motives on each side,. 
Eked out with speculative subtleties 
From free-will, and necessity derived, 
" Fixed fate, free-will, fore- knowledge absolute/' 

DE VALVILLE. 

What is he now ? Good heaven! why Paris has not 

A more accomplished cavalier than he ! 

Who is arrayed with most magnificence ? — 

'Tis he. Who in his public exhibition 

Supports most pomp of train and equipage ? — 

Still he. Who, in the most elaborate style, 

Gives banquets, such as might make pale with envy 

Apicius or Lucullus ? — Still 'tis he ! — 

Of these things now, — not " reasoning" their need," 

But frankly, carelessly, with easy air, — 

He does acquit himself. He now can feed 

Without declaiming that, for man's delight 

Since bodily appetites as much were given 

As highest instincts, 'tis deserving praise 

In the same sense, — though lower in degree, 



86 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

The same in kind, — to have a nice discernment 

In a fricandeau, as to be possessed 

Of pious and benevolent desires. 

Without discoursing of the immortal thirst 

Of spirits, he the goblet now can drain : 

And like a sparkling eye, or pouting* lip, 

Nor of inevitable sympathies, 

Or appetence, pedantically prate. — 

— And who has taught him this ? 

DORICOURT. 

Aye, who has taught him ? 

COURTENAYE. 

I cannot say, I see the change you speak of. 
At least to-day he gave no proof of it, 
Or ere he parted hence. Seemed he not, sirs, 
Most splenetic and unconversible ? 

DORICOURT. 

Granted. — Yes, if his manners of to-day 
Were specimen of that which he is always, 
I should agree with you ; but my remarks 
To his more prevalent mood of late referred. 

despard (aside to Doricourt and De Valville). 
Drop you this theme ! You see in Courtenaye's breast 
It jars some secret string. 



A TRAGEDY. 87 

COURTENAYE. 

Here D'Orniond comes. 
(To D'Ormond as he enters). 
Where, in the name of all the cheersome spirits, 
Which love to hover o'er the social board 
Free hearted mirth inspiring, have you been 
Thus truant from your friends ? I did suspect 
That you designed to play the recreant part 
Of treacherous and un warning absentee 
For the remaining hours 'twixt this and night. 

DUKE D'ORMOND. 

'Twas not my aim. A cursed, offirious priest, 
Would speak with me ; and here perhaps had kept me 
Till morrow's dawn, had I not had the plea 
Of your expectance to cut short his prate. 

COURTENAYE. 

Thou hast trespassed, hast thou, in thy nightly rounds 
Warm from our festal orgies, o'er the threshold, 
Or by a ladder of ropes more likely scaled 
The wall, of monastery consecrate 
To female chastity ? The priest, Til warrant, 
Held not such tedious parley for light cause. 
Was she of rank ? Father, or brother, has she 
To vindicate her honour ? But what needs he, 
Who claims the * Tabouret to heed such trifles? 

* " The Tabouret." An honour so called, of sitting in the royal pre- 
sence, peculiar in France to those of ducal rank. Thus Crebillon says of 



88 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

DUKE D'ORMOND. 

Hold thy licentious tongue ! I was detained, 
But by a cause of interest more profound, 
Than suits this moment's utterance. 

COURTENAYE (asidej. 

This to me 
May be of mighty import. I must probe him ; 
But now is not the time. 

(To Duke D'Ormond). 

Whatever the cause 
That robbed us of your presence, I assure you, 
You were detained much longer than we wished. 
This moment we were talking of you. 

DUKE D'ORMOND. 

Were you? 
Better had I absent myself once more. 
To-day all mirth is jarring to my spirits. 
I may afford you daintier amusement 
By opportunity of talking of me, 
Than by conversing with me. 

(To Courtenaye). 

You excel 
In subjecting yonr dear friends' characters, 
I know it, to the anatomizing ed^e 
Of subtle scrutiny. I baulk your hearers. 

a Duke ((Euvres de Crebillon, fits, tome ii. p. 179) M Qui'l ne lui reste 
plus a vendre que feon Tabouret." 



A TRAGEDY. SO 

COURTENAYE. 

Duke, you are splenetic. Sit down, I pray you, 
Remember the round dozen of champaigne 
You pledged to me, and forfeited last night. 
Let these contribute to this evening's mirth. 

DUKE D'ORMOND. 

Agreed. 

ALL. 

Agreed. 

[At a signal given, the table is supplied with 
fresh wine. Each of the party, except the 
Duke, here exchange significant looks-] 

courtenaye ( aside to Despard). 
Note well his countenance, 
(Addressing the company). 
Come, let me season, with the name of one, — 
Whose voice, compared with it, to discord turns 
The most delicious melody, whose looks, 
To ugliness, most lovely forms, — the juice 
Which mantles in our goblets. Come, I say, 
1 v/ill invoke a beauteous patroness 
To grace, — far more than brighest saint, the shrine 
Most bright, — our mirth; her spirit to infuse, 
Though unseen, 'mid the pleasures of the hour. 



90 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

all {except the Duke J. 
With all our hearts. 



COURTENAYE. 

The Marchioness de Mielcour. 
And may she find a heart as warm and true, 
As peerless and resistless are her charms. 

DUKE D'ORMOND, 

f Starting from his chair, and advancing to the front 

of the stage). 
The Marchioness de Mielcour ! Curse the lips 
Which thus her name could recklessly profane! 
Shall it be used familiarly, nor I 
The oracle to dictate it? The means 
Shall it be made to give more pungent relish 
To midnight banquets, and inebriate revels ? 
I cannot bear it ! 'Tis all hell let loose 
To torture me to madness. 

COURTENAYE. 

Duke, did you 
Not hear the pledge? What agitates you thus ? 
The Marchioness de Mielcour, I'll warrant, 
Likes the insuppressive fervour of a soul 
Fiery and ardent as this sparkling beverage ! 
One that can revel in the ecstacy, 
When its rich fumes elicit from the brain, 
And thrilling blood, high phantasies of bliss, 



A TRAGEDY. 91 

Far better than the sons of sentiment 
Sighing in sonnets, and quaint madrigals. 

DESPARD. 

Aye, by the holy rood, that does she, 'faith! 
And if you would that lady woo, and win, 
Badge of success, and emblem of your fealty, 
You must entwine the vine-leaf with the myrtle. 

duke d'ormond (aside). 
Hell and perdition ! Must these wassailers 
Thus band about that name, and I not be 
The master spirit to controul their license ? 

DESPARD, 

(Looking out of a window, opposite to which 
is a balcony, from the pillars of which are 
suspended, lamps, and along which a young 
lady slowly paces to a carriage, in waiting 
for her, in the court of the banqueting' 
house, opposite to the end of the balcony J. 
What have we here? A delicate creature, 'faith ! 
Young, fresh, and fair! Alone, and unprotected! 
I'm off — there is no time for parleying here. 

[Vanishes suddenly through a porte-fenttre 
which opens into the balcony.] 

DORICOURT. 

Where can that hair-brained Provencal be going ? 



92 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

COURTENAYE. 

He is embarked in some love enterprize ! 
His match he has not for a quick discernment 
Where skill in such adventures may be tried, 
Nor for possession of that skill when wanted. 
Woe to the damsel, if she virtuous be, 
Within his gripe ! The lamb in eagle's talons 
Is not more sure a victim than is she ! 
Except indeed, ch using to imitate 
The preux chevaliers of the good old times 
Of chivalry, we sally to a rescue. 

DUKE D'ORMOND. 

With all my heart ! Let us be gone this instant! 

COURTENAYE. 

Fie, Duke, fie, fie ! Would you a friend's sport spoil? 
I thought, that, by an intercourse with us, 
You were with better principles imbued. 

duke d'ormond (aside J . 
Confound them, and their principles ! I wish 
I knew as little of the first, as once 
I, of the latter knew ! I can no more 
Endure this ! Gentlemen, hold me excused. 
Elsewhere my presence is of urgent need. 

DESPARD. 

But see, six bottles yet remain unbroached. 



A TRAGEDY. 93 

DUKE D'ORMOND. 

You broach them ! Wine ne'er conies to you amiss. 

[Exit. 

COURTENAYE. 

Why, now — do you call this being so much changed? 
Was ever mortal more untractable 
Than he? What think you of his mood to-night? 
He's absolutely savage with the spleen : 
Ombrageux as a moody Englishman ! 

DE VALVILLE. 

This so far does surpass all that I've seen 

Of his past humours, that it baffles quite 

All probable surmise. Or he's in love, 

Or vexed at heart by some untoward event. 

By whom, do you know, was he called from hence 

Some half hour since ? I'll of our host enquire. 

[Rings. The master of the banquet- 
ing-house enters.] 

DE VALVILLE. 

That gentleman who now goes forth from hence, 
Who was it sought for him some half hour past,* 

HOST. 

He was a priest : a friar mendicant. 
Le Charier he is called. 



94 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

courtenaye f aside). 

This solves at once 
The mystery ! I will plot his ruin hence ! 
He is dispatched to D'Ormond, as I've learned, 
On frequent embassies, by that lean foe 
To our good mother church, that hugenot, 
The canting' Colville. 'Tis a shrewd discovery, 
And notably may work my purposes. 

DE VALVILLE. 

Who is this priest ? This same Le Charier ? Who ? 
And what connection has he with Duke D'Ormond ? 

COURTENAYE. 

'Tis a long tale ! too long* now to be told ! 

He is the emissary of a man 

Who was, in former times, the confidant 

Of an adventure of the amorous kind, 

That D'Ormond had in La Vendee, or ere 

He came to Paris. He would fain persuade him 

Faithful to be to his affianced love; 

If so, he is a lost man to ourselves. 

But I have hitherto successfully 

His projects contravened ; nay more, contrived 

All intercourse to interrupt between them. 

The which with overtures to recommence, 

Le Charier by his patron is dispatched 

To D'Ormond, as 1 think. 

[Ruminating* 



A TRAGEDY. 

This must not be ! 
This visit of Le Charier's is portentous ! 
D'Ormond, I track thy steps. 

(To Doricoart and De Vahille). 
To you, good sirs, 
I presently return ! Then let us pass, 
At least, some portion of the waning day 
In pastime meetest to refresh our spirits. 



EXD OF THE FIRST ACT. 



THE DUKE D ORMOND, 



SECOND ACT. . 

SCENE THE FIRST, 

The House of Count Colvilk. 
Count Colville and Le Charier. 

COUNT COLVILLE. 

WHAT answer from Duke D'Ormond do you bring? 

LE CHARIER. 

Oh, the old tale ! he will not hear reproof. 
His passions are in arms ! 'Tis doubtless true, 
That, of the Marchioness de Mielcour, 
And him, which you have heard. 

COUNT COLVILLE. 

Would he not then 
One moment listen to you ? 

LE CHARIER. 

Not one moment. 

COUNT COLVILLE. 

Would he not see me ? 



A TRAGEDY. 97 

LE CHARIER. 

No. — When first I gave 
Utterance to such a wish on your part, he 
Writhed like a thing tormented. 

COUNT COLVILLE. 

Wretched man! — 
What must be done for him ? What I can, I will. 
But here the possible seems impotence ! — 
But tell me what you gathered from him? 

LE CHARIER. 

When 
To him your apprehensions I expressed 
Of the ill consequence of intercourse 
With Courtenaye and his comrades, and when further, 
As you had authorized, nay had enjoined, 
I hinted at the rumour you had heard 
Of an ariangement 'twixt the Marchioness 
De JMielcour, and him, and then suggested 
The cruel consequence to Julia Villeneuve 
Of such an infidelity, he bit 

His lips, frowned sternly, stamped upon the ground, 
And quitting me abruptly, he pushed back 
The door with all his might, so that the room 
E'en shook ; and thus without allowing me 
Time to expostulate, or his departure 
Gracing with any courteous ceremony, 
Finally disappeared. But I have now 
H 



98 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

Another charge of which V acquit myself: 
As I departed from the house, a servant 
Asked me if I came not from you. The truth 
Confessing, he informed me that a lady 
Then in the house, had questioned him of you, 
And wished to send to you a messenger. 
Then added, shewing me a letter, which 
He held, that she had begged him to take that 
With many charges of discreet conveyance, 
To your abode: he then went on to ask me,— 
As being burthened with variety 
Of hindrances, from doing this to-night ; 
If I would be the bearer of it. — See, — 
Here is the letter, sir. — 

COUNT COLVILLE. 

To me, a letter ! — 
And from a lady ! In an unknown hand ! — 
And yet methinks ere now I've seen that writing ! 
What may its contents be? Sorrow in me 
Has made such ravages, in me, alas ! 
Is such a constant inmate, with her pale 
Attendant apprehension, that I draw 
Inference calamitous, from each event 
That seems mysterious or extraordinary, 
And not of every day's anticipation. 
Well, I will open it, and put an end 
To these perplexed conjectures ! — 

[Opens the letter. 



A TRAGEDY. 99 

From Julia! — 
From the affianced bride of the Duke D'Ormond ! — 
She tells me here that she is come to Paris : 
And further my permission she entreats 
To have brief interview with me ! 

(To Le Charier.) 

But did 
You not say you received this at the house 
Where D'Ormond meets with his licentious friends? 
In short within the very threshold, where 
You erewhile met him ? 

LE CHARIER. 

Yes, it is so. 

COUNT COLVIILE. 

Ah! 
Should they meet there. Well, if they do, I hope 
That Providence will turn the chance to good ! — 
At all events I'll see her. Sit you down 
While briefly to her letter I reply. — 

[He sits down, writes. Folds and seals a let- 
ter, and gives it to a servant ivith an order 
to deliver it to Julia VillencuveJ] 

COUNT COLVILLE. 

What can she have to say to me? What can 

I say to her ? Oh that I could, or ere 

I quit my native land, Duke D'Ormond see 

I J? H 2 

Lor v. 



100 THE BUKE D'ORMOND, 

Keleased from his degenerate enthralment ? 
To Julia reconciled ! — And being one, 
As I have reason to believe, who well 
Deserves his love, e'en as he was or ere 
By vice degraded, that he might again 
Confer his love on her, and wedding her, 
With peace, and virtue, form a lasting union ! 
I have myself from vice too deeply suffered, 
Not e'en to shudder, when its strong allurements, 
Enthral a heart susceptible of good ! — 
I am not, Le Charier, the thing I seem! — 

LE CHARTER. 

So you have often told me ; but I know not — 
You're always so consistent with yourself, 
Practice in you not only so makes good, 
But so outstrips profession — I confess, 
How to believe your self-disparagement. — 

COUNT COLVILLE. 

I am the thing I seem, and I am not ! — 
You know I leave my native land : with me 
Time now is precious. Ere this lady come,— 
Since other opportunities may fail, — 
The few hours which I have to tarry here, 
Are with so many more affairs o'ercbarged, 
Than I, with my enfeebled faculties, 
Can well dispatch, — I will now shew to you 
My inner self, if utterance meet be lent me. 



A TRAGEDY. 101 

I am the thing I seem, and I am not ! — 

Inasmuch as I am sincere I am ; 

And inasmuch I am not as the times 

Discretion, place, person, and circumstance, 

Or would not suffer, or not authorize 

Me, to be unreservedly sincere. — 

But if you knew the pang it cost me, when 

1 deviate the least from truth's plain path, 

My aberrations you would deem the effect 

Of circumstance, not offspring of my will. 

I have a heavy burthen at my heart ! — 

Le Charier, divers are the characters 

Of human beings ! Are there not who seem 

In early life for good predestinate 

Who by some fatal swerving of the will 

In perilous temptation, blast a prime 

Of happy promise: trees are they, which bear, 

Or ought to bear delicious fruit, which nipped 

By blighting east winds, sapless, withered, sered, 

And unproductive, finally become 

The leafless skeletons of what they were ! — 

From men like these all joyous impulse flies; 

When they should act, they think, not having thought 

In past times ere they acted ! Instinct dies 

In them, and scrutiny usurps its place. 

They see through ail the common forms of things ! 

They weigh ; they speculate; they analyze! — 

In actions, which, to other men, seem good, 

And graceful, they, detecting but too well 



102 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

The prevalent motive, nothing see to praise. 
They are like automatic entities ! 
They, for a gush of tears, or throb of love, 
Would hazard more than conqueror ever did, 
And Caesar's hardships, Alexander's toils, — 
Give them the promise of sweet sympathy, — 
To them like sports of childhood would appear. 
I — 1 — am one of these ! — 

LE CHARIER. 

You jest, Count Colville. 

COUNT COLVILLE. 

Ah, that I did ! the icy cold that weighs 

Upon my heart, the tearless speculation 

With which mine eyes see scenes even of anguish, 

That make my blood creep in my veins, and all 

My bodily functions seem to paralyze, 

These symptoms, though invisible toothers, 

Cleaving with importunity to me, 

Tell but too plainly, to the wretch who feels them, 

Of a disorganized and shattered conscience. 

It is by its inexorable pang, 

Immitigable, inextinguishable, 

Alone, that I retain a consciousness 

Of conscience, and discover that I have one.— 

As to ail other joys, 1 am quite dead 

To its approval ;— to its terrors, victim ! — 

I talk of virtue, but I feel it not! — 



A TRAGEDY. 103 

Talk of religion, but I cannot pray ! — 

And talk of loving, loveless, and unloved! 

In youth, I pious forms of speech acquired; 

In youth with virtuous men alone I lived; 

In youth I framed to virtue my demeanour; 

And though my speech, my feelings, and my deeds, 

Still, like a parrot that can talk by rote, 

Bear virtue's impress, her sweet peace of mind, 

Her joys unspeakable, are gone for ever ! — 

I am called hugonot, called heretic! — 

I am no hugonot, no heretic! — 

But I am one who have too freely tasted 

Fruit of the tree of knowledge, not to smile 

At modern commutations, — called Religion, — 

For sense of moral obligation, 

And practice of the human hearted virtues. 

Not but that I believe that heaven consents 

Slight penance to accept for slight offences. 

But when the sense of duty is thrown off, 

None but slight minds at slight offences stop. 

Offences these of superficial souls, 

Which cannot or be great in vice or virtue. 

There are some of etherial innocence: 

And there are others of mixed temperament, 

Who cannot or be great in vice or virtue. 

But those whose virtues are pre-eminent, 

Are they of perilous natures, who have borne 

Faithfully a commingled communing, 

With deep solicitings from froward passions. — 



104 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

Woe be to those who have at once in them 

Angel combined with devil, and through weakness 

Have let the latter gain th' ascendancy. — 

These, these know what it literally is, 

When they have basely yielded to temptation, 

To' realize again the angel's fall. 

Hell, — Heaven, — are within them: and the shows 

Of outward things, as they are prone to yield 

To ill, or firm as spirits militant 

T'assist the better cause, reflect on them 

Infernal horror, or celestial brightness! — 

So, on the other hand, how bright at last, 

Shines, like the fire of Vesta, the trimmed lamp, 

Which, — though it have been cumbered with thick 

fogs, 
Or oft half quenched by surly visi tings 
From felon blasts, and noisome damps, and storms 
Of rain, hail, sleet, and snow, — a good man tends 
E'en to the hour of final dissolution 
With vigilant unintermitted toil ! — 
Yet think not I complain ! Though buffeted 
By (sorest of misfortunes here below!) 
The anguish of a lacerated conscience, 
I yet can see, or think I see, e'en here, 
In this untoward world, the ascendancy 
Of truth o'er error; o'er the ill, of good; 
A permanence in moral excellence ; 
A sfclf-destructiv$ mutability 
In pain, and falsehood, and calamity; 



A TRAGEDY. 105 

And thence the promise of the final triumph 
Of truth, of virtue, and of happiness! — 

LE CHARIER. 

Since earliest youth have I been visited 

With manifold calamities ! In none 

Of these could I discern that man possessed 

A more than instrumental agency ! — 

A mightier than myself has scourged me. 

I have bowed down in silent passiveness, 

Have learned humility : and 'mid all woes 

Religion a sure comforter has been ! — 

COUNT COLVILLE. 

When I consider the infinity, 

The contrariety, complexity, 

Of powers that bear upon this scene, not made 

For mortal explanation, I am lost 

In wonder at the order thence educed, — 

Their skilful adaptation ! With a good, 

Is there an evil which teems not? Unfit 

To assume another, and a better form, 

In nature an abortion ? We accuse 

Men, institutions, as they were the cause 

Of evil. But the bitterness with which 

We make the accusation, proves to me 

That its seat deeper lies— in our own hearts ! 

LE CHARIER. 

Talk ever thus ! Though I am one whose fate 



106 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

Is spited by the world, I love the world, 
And those my brethren who inhabit it. 
It soothes me thus in human things to trace 
A power educing good from imperfection. 

COUNT COLVILLE. 

So, my friend, is it ! 'Tis the fortunate 
Who chiefly at their destiny complain. 
Who, for the most part suffer, if they be 
Among those numbered, to whom ? all things work 
Together for their good,' learn to endure 
In silence: to ' rejoice with thankfulness' 
When it is mitigated. " Then at once 
" Their tongues are loosen'd, and their lips un- 
closed. 
" Somewhat of virtue, health, and happiness, 
" Form the preponderant experience 
" Of mortals; hence as contraries, and hence 
" As of more rare occurrence of the two, 
" Of instances to the reverse we talk, 
" And he who has fewest of these contraries 
" Talks with the loudest, and the bitterest tongue! 
" 'Tis an exception which he cannot brook ! 
" We never hear men marvel when they're well !— 
" Comment, as on a miracle, on joy ! — 
" As thing unheard of, celebrate success ! — 
u Or speak of safety as a prodigy ! — 
" From health allotted, for one grateful word ; 
u From joy imparted, for one warm thanksgiving ; 
M From friendship shewn, one tributary praise ; 



A TRAGEDY. 107 

" How many rash ones from infirmity ! 

" How many peevish ones from wretchedness ! 

" How many pinings from ingratitude ! 

" And these, meanwhile, it might be clearly shewn, 

" Are the exceptions to the general rule/' — 

Enough of this ! Le Charier, let me now 

Do that to which I've pledged myself already! 

Yet not to you, as to a Confessor, 

Do I myself disburthen ! No, I deem, 

God hates not, with an arbitrary hatred, 

The vicious, but from contrariety 

Of vice to his pure essence. — Change of heart, 

Alone can be a grateful sacrifice 

To Him, not mere confession, much less penance, 

And all the juggling tricks by which the crafty, — 

Making them the equivalents for virtue, — 

Have sought, as one means of ascendency, 

To gain an influence o'er coward souls, 

Enervate from the consciousness of guilt. 

I therefore, as from friend to friend, and not 

As to a priest — would all priests were like you, 

Though staunch, and willing martyrdom t'endure 

In the high cause of your religion, yet 

Deeming diversity of forms no more 

Than of man's levity, imperfectness, 

His love of change, tenaciousness for shew 

Rather than substance, necessary fruits : — 

Therefore I sent to you, that, ere I leave 

My native land for ever, as from friend 



108 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

To bosom friend, I might to you impart — 

That which I never yet have done to any — 

The clue from whence to comprehend, — the spring, 

The master-key of, — my heart's mystery ! — 

I am not what I seem ! Le Charier, no ! — 

Hear from my lips that which I really am! — 

The self-denying, exemplary, Colville,— 

The mortified ascetic Colville is — 

LE CHARIER. 

Stop ! stop ! for mercy's sake ! Your countenance 
Is wild, and agitated ! You are ill ! — 
You know not that which you are saying. — 

COUNT COLVILLE. 

I 

Know but too well ! In order to destroy 

A fabric of foundationless repute, 

Which 1 have gained with you, and a few more, — 

For narrow is my circle of acquaintance — 

To you, — who judge of others by yourself, 

And cannot, without the reality, 

Of the appearance, dream, of rectitude,— 

I, this confession make. My heart will be 

Tormented less, when it has once to you 

Communicated its mysterious secret : 

Although it cost me pangs like those which wait 

Upon the hour when soul and Hody part ; 

Yea, anguish in 'escribably intense, 



A TRAGEDY. 109 

And throes of agonizing fearf illness ! 
Your friend, your Colville is— 

(A Servant enters). 

SERVANT. 

A lady, sir, 
Waits, in a chariot, at your door, who fain 
Would speak with you. 

COUNT COLVILLE* 

This must be Julia Villeneuve. 
(To Le Charier J. 
May I request you to retire now ? Soon 
As from this lady I'm released — at least 
Or ere I lay me on my pillow — will I 
The rest of my confession make to you. 

LE CHARIER. 

Sir, I retire. May heaven bring healing to you! 

[As Le Charier withdraws on one side, 
Julia Villeneuve enters on the other]. 



110 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

SCENE THE SECOND. 

Count Colville and Julia Villeneuve. 

julia villeneuve fin deep mourning). 
Your name is Colville, sir ? 

count colville. 

It is. 

JULIA. 

I fain 
Would beg 1 , that you, on my abrupt intrusion, 
Would put no harsh construction. I am driven 
By stern necessity. — 

COUNT COLVILLE. 

( To the Servant , who still waits). 
Place chairs, and then 
Withdraw from hence. 

(To Julia). 
Madam, sit down 1 pray you. 
And trust, that, whatsoe'er your purpose be, 
I think myself indebted to the cause 
Which brought so sweet a visitant. — 

JULIA. 

My name 
Is Julia Villeneuve. I am not, 1 trust, 



A TRAGEDY. Ill 

Mistaken, thinking you the gentleman 

Who once was intimate with one near of kin: 

Son to my mother's brother? The DukeD'Ormond ? 

COUNT COLVILLE. 

Such honour once I boasted. But of him 
What have you to relate ? 

JULIA. 

That you're his friend 
You do not disavow. 

COUNT COLVILLE. 

I fain would not. 

JULIA. 

Say, is he well ? Tidings of any sort 
Were welcomer to me than none at all. 

count colville [aside J. 
Poor girl ! I greatly fear — 

(To Julia J. 

I trust he's well. 

JULIA. 

I fain would trust the same. 1 came to you, — 

Myself divesting of my sex's fears, 

That to enquire, of which to be resolved, 



112 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

Though disappointingly, to my worn spirits 
Were better than to linger in surmise. 

count colville (aside). 
Poor injured innocent ! What shall I say ? — 

(To Julia). 
Have you of late then not had tidings of him ? 

JULIA. 

For the strange step which I have taken now 

Better apology I cannot make, 

Than by divulging to you, that, to which 

It otherwise would pain me to give utterance. 

An aged mother, aged and infirm, 

To whom I had not only to supply 

The place of child, but who, on earth, save me, 

No other knew whose love she might command, 

And the Duke D'Ormond, were to me, at once 

The only objects of my youthful love. — 

When they were joined they made my only world: 

Disjoin'd, the absent only seemed o'th' two 

The dearer, since the absent. Had it been 

Either, that one had seemed for the time the dearest, 

And the remaining one been incomplete. — 

She now is gone, of whom to talk so now, 

Seems like profaneness! — May I speak to you?— 

There is indulgence in your eye; and that 

In you, which prompts to confidence! — I prate, — 



A TRAGEDY. 113 

But, sir, time presses! I am sore beset ! — 

All the complexion of my future days, 

All that, for which, in long-, unsleeping- nights, 

I've prayed, and wept: all, — all, — is now at stake ! 

She is no more ! My mother is no more! 

Oh, may I tell it you? Pious she was, 

But she was what is deemed heretical 

In times like these ; though never outwardly 

She left the bosom of her mother church, 

Yet both by precept, and example, she 

Discountenanced persecution, of the which 

Religion — so to indulge malicious tempers — 

Rather than cause, was pretext. Such the Duke 

was. I 
An orphan am sent hither, not by friends,— 
No, — no, — but by the hard ensnaring wiles 
Of those on whom, now, — friendless, parentless — 
The power devolves of governing my fate. 
To-day is my last day of liberty ! 
A cloister's walls to-morrow will receive me 
In living sepulture ! I hither came 
With one attendant, and in former times 
While I, in happier hour, the play-mate was 
Of D'Ormond, having learned, from seeing him 
Write letters to you, how to address you, — more, 
Having myself wrote letters to him, when 
He was your guest, — the place of your abode 
I knew, and ere the last sad fatal moment 
i 



114 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

For ever from the world has sever' d me, 
I came to crave of you, — pardon the freedom, 
Since I am ignorant of his abode, — 
News of a kinsman and a once dear friend. 

count colville (aside). 
Poor friendless innocent! I pity thee ! — 
What can I say to comfort her ? — 

JULIA. 

You seem 
Disquieted ! Pray tell me all, — all — all ! 
I can bear all ! I think I can! — • 

COUNT COLVILLE. 

Will you 
Permit me, ere, to nearer interests, 
Our conversation turns, to step aside 
To speak to one who has it in his power 
More to confirm me in the replication 
To all your interrogatories ? 

JULIA, 

Sir! 
Use ceremony not with me ! Its rules 
In coming here Fve broken. Sufferance now 
Is all I have to plead for, and perhaps 
'Tis more than I should now anticipate. 



A TRAGEDY. 115 

COUNT COLVILLE. 

Lady, this self disparagement, ill suits 
Your character: though since it is sincere — 

For insincerity could never speak 

In tones like your's — strong in its weakness, 'tis 

To me a theme for veneration ! 

I wish a second time to question one 

Better informed than I, from whence I may 

Learn that which either may confirm, or, as 

I fain would rather hope, enable me 

To dissipate, your apprehensive fears. 

JULIA. 

To you I'm much beholden! 

COUNT COLVILLE. 

He who could, 
Beholding you, not wish to make you happy, 
Must have indeed a heart of adamant. 

[Exit. 

julia (alone). 
I'm not mistaken. My conjectures were 
So favourable of Count Colville's goodness, 
From sentiments which I beheld in letters, 
In past times, written from him to Duke D'Ormond, 
That I by this was, — and the confidence 
He lived above the world's vain ceremonies,-— 
i 2 



116 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

Urged, and emboldened such a step to take. 
D'Ormond, canst thou have made thyself unworthy 
Of a friend so excellent ? I will not think it ! 
Yet when the Count I questioned of his friend 
Why should he thus with hesitation answer? — 
Ah D'Ormond, didst thou as myself remember 
The lovely days we spent together, when 
The year was in its prime, all change to theo 
Were now, as 'tis to me, impossible! — 
How did affection, and fidelity 
Saint-like and pure, seem to inspire thy voice, 
When walking in free converse, burst on us 
The beauties of a renovated world ! — 
The swelling buds, the animating warmth 
That through all nature seemed to penetrate, 
The song of birds, the clear blue atmosphere, 
All told us of th' Eternal who walked forth 
And through the very common forms of things 
Breathed an immortal re-productiveness. 

Re-enter Count (aside). 
What can I say to her? Rather than speak 
That which I must, I would announce his death. 

julia (who had caught his last words J . 
" Death !" Did you say he is dead ? Then 1 indeed 
Am friendless and undone ! 

[Faints* 



A TRAGEDY. 117 

COUNT COLVILLE. 

Poor girl ! Poor orphan ! 
If apprehension of her D'Ormoml's death 
Thus agitate her, at the thought I shudder 
Of what must be tlT effect of telling her 
That of which now Le Charier has this instant 
A second time to-night given me assurance. 
Further enquiry but confirms, not weakens 
Th' impression which his story made on me. 

(To Julia, reviving). 
No, lady, no, he is not dead ! He lives ! — 

JULIA. 

D'Ormond! 

COUNT COLVILLE. 

Poor girl ! He is not dead ! No, no — 
Yet lives he. 

f Aside). 
But I rather would announce 
His death to her, than his degraded state ! — 
Yet, noble, or so seemed it, was his nature! 

julia f catching his last woi % dsJ* 
Was noble, say you ? And " so seemed it ?" Oh, 
You wrong his nature ! Noble 'tis, and can 
Never be aught save noble ! Now I think on't, 
He must have oft mentioned my name to you ! 
His kinswoman, his Julia Villeneuve, and 



118 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

His aunt, her mother, could not but be known 
To one so dear a friend as you are to him ? 

count colville (aside). 
Oh, that I might that title challenge still ! 
I soon would bring him to this lady's side. 

(To Julia J. 
His '* dear friend ?" Yes, I was so, and am still ! 
That is, he's dear to me ! and I would fain 
Believe that I am dear to him ; would fain 
Still be a friend to him. — Yes, yes, you are 
By me well known, and worthily esteemed. 

JULIA. 

Why then delay so, if you deem me worthy 

Of such a trust, to give some palliative 

At least, to my anxiety for him ? 

I know him rash ; and these are perilous times. 

Impassioned too is he ; and Paris is 

Full of temptations. All these things I know. 

So deeply my inquietudes are seated 

Sometimes they almost rise to agony !— 

Perhaps you disapprove — 

COUNT COLVILLE. 

No, no, I cannot 
Disapprove aught with so much innocence. 
No, no — I cannot disapprove — I, — I, — 
Rather compassionate — I would say respect,—- 



A TRAGEDY. 119 

That is, I venerate — I would say, — I know 
Not what to say. — 

JULIA. 

I cannot bear suspense 
Like this ! — Tell me at once if he be living. 
Or — 1 mean is he well or ill ? — Is he ? — 
You know what I would say ! Your look persuades 

me 
You only know too well ! Would he, good sir, 
His cousin know again ? his play-mate know 
In days gone by, in former happier hours ? 
All I can bear to hear : I think I can : 
I'm stronger than I seem : at doubt I tremble, 
But, when I know the worst, I'm resolute ! 

COUNT COLVILLE. 

Yes, he is living. 



111? 



JULIA. 



COUNT COLVILLE. 

No. Yes.— 



JULIA. 

Good sir, 
Point out to me the place of his abode. 



120 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

Perhaps e'en now lie stands in need of solace? — 
Who can so well as I, that long have known him, 
Known him from infancy, with all his ways 
Am well acquainted, to his wants supply 
A nurse's place? — Oh agony! — Alas, 
I rave ! — I did forget that all this while, 
No longer of my person, time, abode, 
Ami the mistress ! — 

COUNT COLVILLE. 

Lovely enthusiast! — 
How shall I break it to her? — 

(With great solemnity J. 

Julia! — 
[Julia starts from her chair.~\ 
Be seated, madam ! Force yourself to calmness, 
Or I can ill perform the painful task 
I have before me! The Duke D'Ormond lives; 
Far as I know he is in health, but — 

JULIA. 

Sir ?— 

COUNT COLVILLE. 

The rest you must conjecture. — I can't tell it. — 

JULIA. 

He loves another ? Is she worthy of him ?— 



A TRAGEDY. 121 

count colville f aside J. 
How, e'en i'th- midst of her emotions, are 
Her first thoughts promptings of a generous nature! 
This elevation in her sentiments 
Gives my chained tongue the utterance it needs. 

(To Julia). 
To say the truth, he is no more the man 
Whom you and I once knew. — 

JULIA. 

I scarce can think it ! 
Except my corporal senses vouch its truth. 
This were indeed a heavy blow ! have hours, 
Hours, days, and sleepless nights, weeks, months, 

and years, 
Spent by me in unsolaced carefulness, 
In prayers and tears for him brought nought but 

this !— 
It is a heavy blow ! But may not you 
Be misinformed ? 

COUNT COLVILLE. 

Ah, madam, that I were ! 
Most freely, for it so to prove, would I 
Surrender every claim to future credence ! 
But, 'twere to flatter you to think it possible. 
For though with me he has declined all commerce, 
By means of one of known veracity,— 



122 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

And one, who, in his measure, fain would be, 

As much as I, a friend to him, I gain 

Tidings of him, not, — as you well may think — 

To gratify a curious disposition ; 

But — for a moment should conviction smite him,- 

That I may be prepared to avail myself 

Of such an interval, to extricate 

Him from the snares in which he is involved. 

To be explicit, — for I can perceive 

I agitate you, and torment as much 

By this imperfect, as I could divulging 

"With the most perfect, confidence, his state. 

Your mind is by religion fortified 

I trust. Here you will need to have recourse 

To such support. Yet it is preferable 

To know the extent of a calamity, 

To being left to dark surmise — and here 

I have, for this disclosure, double reason.— 

To you I look now as the only means 

Of bringing him again to duty's path. — 

And that you may be able to apply 

Wisely a remedy, you first must know 

The extent, and nature of the malady. — 

JULIA. 

In such experiment were my life forfeit, 
Were I successful, I should deem the price 
As nothing ! 



A TRAGEDY. 123 

COUNT COLVILLE. 

I believe you most devoutly ! — 
Now to ray tale — and listen, if you can, 
With seeming' calmness, or in vain shall I 
Endeavour calmly to sustain my part. 
With men of desperate character, Duke D'Ormond, 
And desperate fortune, for some six months past, 
Has closely leagued himself; or rather, they 
But too successfully have spread their snare 
To entangle hirn as their confederate. 
They are aware how ample is his fortune ; 
I, from to-day's report, have gained fresh clue 
Whereby to unravel his late purposes. 
I have no doubt but that the self-abasement 
He felt, when so ignobly he left you, 
And your infirm and venerable mother, — 
From the degrading influence of remorse 
When paltered with, and not accompanied 
By strict resolve to heed its prohibitions, — 
Prepared his mind for the ascendancy 
Of those pernicious schemes which have enthralled 

him. 
Although his irritable restless passions 
Suffered him not to keep the post of duty, 
But urged him to forsake you (to such minds 
A good far distant is no good at all). 
And as you had resolved so long- as lived 
Your mother, not to join to his your fate; 
That other duties might not interfere 



124 THE DUKE D'ORMON'D, 

With a devout exclusive care for her; 
So he was galled, and left you — as I gained 
From his own lips — in an unlucky hour 
Of moody passion: though, I say, the throes 
Of a tempestuous, fiery temperament, 
Urged him to this, they could not silence in him. 
But rather they augmented,- — inasmuch 
As such a character is always gifted 
With a proportioned sensibility, — 
The gnawings of remorse. This very fact, 
Of failure in one point, prepared in him 
The state which fitted him for more declension. 
How oft do persons wanting self-controul, 
Transgress with open eyes, and agonized 
With piercing consciousness of self-betrayal, 
Not only wrongly act, but act more wrongly, 
With fiercer eagerness, proportionate 
To the intensity of their remorse! — 
Hoping each new step of delinquency 
May bring clear riddance to their consciousness, 
And cast oblivion on those gone before. 
His passions you well know — for those who know 
Him well, like you, cannot have fail'd to mark it- 
Are always on the very verge of frenzy, 
With sensibility, and genius too 
Kichly endowed, his judgment hitherto 
Hath notproportionably been matured. 
This genius, and sensibility, 
Give him imaginative power to frame 



A TRAGEDY. 125 

A portraiture most exquisite of virtue : 

And give him even rapturously to feel 

Influence from what is fair, and good, and perfect ; 

And deeply in his heart to venerate 

All elevating qualities, all those 

Which are sublime and awful ! Yet, alas ! 

From want of strength of resolution 

He sometimes deviates from the standard fixed 

Within his mind of worth ! Ah then, how keen — 

E'en in proportion to his keen perceptions, — 

Is his remorse ! How turbulent its throes ! — 

How wild its transports ! Were he lost to virtue, 

For ever lost, her cause would be deprived 

Of one, by nature fitted most to grace it. 

JULIA. 

Of him you're worthy. Worthily you praise him. 

Ah ! can he have a friend like you, and leave 

His faithful side, for the perfidious lure 

Of adulating minions, parasites, 

Men that make traffic of a brother's weakness? 

COUNT COLVILLE. 

So now it seems. When first he hither came, 
He passed my threshold once or twice. Of you 
1 question'd him; and from his manner feared 
All was not right with him. In former times, 
And in his letters, never were his words 



126 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

So eloquent, as when you were his theme. 
The subject now he waived ; talked wildly; mut- 
tered 
Something 'bout wilfulness, propriety; 
And measured coldness. — Just enough for me 
To gather that his feelings were incensed 
By some refusal on your part to plight 
Your faith to his, so long as to your love 
Your mother's life was spared. At last, by means 
Of one, a friar mendicant, by name 
Le Charier, I gain'd intelligence 
That he had leagued with desperate adventurers: 
I wrote to him : begged him to come to me : 
And somewhat perhaps inadvertently 
Hinted at his delinquency. He deigned 
Not a reply. Oft have 1 sought his house :— 
Never is he to me accessible. 
By letter oft have I addressed him : yet 
Never has answer been returned : at last 
One was sent back unopened. Thus, at length, 
Closed ten years intercourse ! From his fifteenth 

year 
Had he been known to me. All that I since 
Have learned of him, has, through the means been 

gained 
Of this Le Charier: who, this evening, called 
At a famed house for banqueting, to which. 
With his unworthy colleagues, frequently 



A TRAGEDY. 127 

He, as I am informed, resorts : and grieved 
Am I to say, that all which I have learned 
This evening, but confirms my former fears. — 

JULIA. 

Ah, God ! — But, sir — may I the nature ask ?— • 
You understand me ? — 

COUNT COLVILLE. 

Yes, too well I do ! — 
As at my tale's commencement I affirmed, 
He by a set of harpies is environed, 
Whom, probably, — though he consort with them, — 
He with ineffable contempt regards. — 
Leader of these confederates in vice, 
And profligate voluptuousness, is one, 
Courtenaye by name, a man exactly fitted 
To gain ascendency o'er such a mind 
As that of the Duke D'Ormond. You must be, 
From native sense, instinctively aware, 
Young though you be, and though your bosom hides^ 
In its clear region, no suspicious thoughts ; 
That 'tis not so much as men act on others 
That they gain influence, as that they be framed, 
Iron-nerved, of impenetrable stuff, 
So that no other men can act on them. — 
Coldness e'en with fatuity, that walks 
Unswerving in one line (when leagued w ith souls, 
However gifted, that are self-betrayed 



128 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

From too exceeding- warmth, not counterbalanced 
By an antagonist energy of judgment) 
Will gain tlr ascendancy, and rule e'en those 
Of mettle framed for a more noble lot : 
As we at least should think, did not, when brought 
To the test of proof, th' anticipation vanish. 
Thus Courtenaye inaccessible to all 
The irresolute fluctuations of the Duke, 
And with a character to comprehend, 
Though not to emulate, his attributes, 
Has, at the same time power to assume the semblance, 
Though spurious, of a fascinating fervour ; 
And he discriminates enough to feel, 
When their propensities are weighed, what most 
At once ensnares, and captivates his victims- 
He hides the most flagitious callousness 
'Neath the exterior of warm-hearted frankness. 
And seeming the mere shuttlecock of whim, 
Caprice, and gaiety, or, when he chuses, 
With most enthusiastic ardour fraught, 
He is impenetrably cold, untouched 
By conscientious yearnings : not one twinge 
Of that conviction, which makes men relent 
In their bad purposes, — howe'er he may 
Scatter dismay, and ruin, and despair 
Around him, — ever touched his heart of steel! 
Well, well he knew thai he could never rule 
DukeD'OrmoncPs soul, 'till he had mastery gained 
Of his master passion: — could discriminate 



A TRAGEDY. 129 

That this ascendency he ne'er could gain 

With his inferior talents and endowments, 

'Till he, by leading him to do some deed 

Abhorrent to his nature, that he felt 

Degrading, made him with himself at war. 

Love, lawless love — I rack your sou! — and mine 

Barns, as in torment, at the cruel tale, — 

This was the passion, this the instrument 

He chose, as best adapted to his end. — 

As virtuous love would militate against him, 

So thought he a licentious paramour, 

Mainly if she abetted his designs, 

And in his interest were, would rivet fast 

His chains. — Most noble of the works of nature, 

When blest with spirit of self-sacrifice, 

At once a heroine, and tremulous 

In sensitiveness, so as to know how 

To bind man's wounds most efficaciously, 

What canst thou not, oh woman, when sublime, 

And tender thou in soul art, not perform ! 

To such a woman I commit Duke D'Ormond. 

This is not flattery ! Though 1 now but first 

Beheld you, much of you has been to me 

Reported ; and your countenance tells a tale 

To which the heart yields an implicit credence. 

Save him ! oh, save him ! Something to my heart 

Whispers to me that it is in your power; 

And may heaven's blessing help you to perform it 

Without yourself being a sacrifice. 

Oh, save him ! All my influence over him 

K 



130 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

Is at an end ! But let a full placed trust 

In your own power, derived from trust in hejiven, 

Inspire you, with a blessing from above, 

You yet may be a " lantern to his feet," 

" Light to his path!" 

But to my narrative — 
Duke D'Ormond has been introduced by Courtenaye 
To th' Marchioness de Mielcour. Thus it seems 
That fate decrees it of your sex to be 
Glorious, or perilous prerogative, 
To work redemption for him or perdition. 
This lady is, as I am told, disposed, 
With passionate devotion, to abet 
The schemes of Courtenaye : while she has address 
To transfer to your D'Ormond — for I still 
Shall think him your's and call him so — the semblance 
Of that devotion, she is doing this 
But as auxiliar to her paramour. 
But you have heard enough. Once more I go 
To-morrow to his door. Will you go with me ? 
Wherever you appoint, I'll call for you. — 
I will, if he be there, make my way to him, 
Even should his name be refused to me. 
Once more from my lips shall he hear the truth! 
And by the silent pleading of your presence 
Accompanied, truth he cannot resist. 

JULIA. 

Should he refuse to see me ? Oh my god, 
I almost tremble to anticipate 



A TRAGEDY. 131 

The possibility of such a slight 

From one so dear to me ; to place myself 

In circumstance which gives to him the power 

So cruelly to shake me off, and wrong" me! — 

But I have but one day ! Decide for me ! — 

Oh, should he prove my saviour ! and while he 

Generously snatches me from living death, 

Oh, should the rapture of that thought become 

Thrice rapturous, thinking that I also am 

The humble instrument him to restore 

To that nobility, that radiance 

Of soul— if by himself not forfeited — 

By birth-right, and inheritance, his own !— 

Yes, could I be subservient to a means 

Of benefit to him, e'en such a wrong 

As that of being banish'd from his presence, 

I calmly could confront ! I love too well ! 

I've loved too long ; and too much for himself 

I love him, in my breast to harbour pride ! 

True \ove fears not, since it can never feel 

Humiliation ! — 

COUNT COLVILLE. 

He shall not refuse 
To see you. I will summon him before you 
As convict to the presence of his judge. 

JULIA. 

But I have nothing to reproach him with. 
k 2 



132 THE DUKE D'ORttOND, 

'Twas my tenacious firmness to abide 

By that which I thought duty dictated, 

That drove him from me. 1 am portionless! 

The little cottage in the which I dwelt 

With my infirm and venerable mother, 

Forbade, from scantiness of room, a change 

In our domestic habits, had her health 

Permitted, which it did not, such a scheme. 

The same infirmity, 'twas so extreme, 

Alike forbade what oft Duke D'Ormond urged. 

That, when united, we should to his aunt, 

A mother then to him, propose to dwell, 

Inmate in her hereditary home. 

Not only, then, the circumstance that all 

Her habits were conformed to long abode, 

Even from early life, in this small dwelling; 

Not only this forbade what else might seem 

Means to augment her comfort, but still more 

Such incapacity for personal change 

Of place, was her's, that I could never bear 

Even to hint to her of his proposal; 

Lest from a generous wish, or ere she died 

To see me in a safe protection placed, 

She should insist on my conformity 

To a change, in which I knew she could not share, 

And thus to her a sacrifice. Though blind, 

She loved this little spot. A happy wife 

There lived she with her lord. It was a home 

In which an only brother, long since dead, 



A TRAGEDY. 133 

And I, were educated ; 'twas to her 
As the whole world! Its scanty garden plot, 
The hum of bees hived there, which still she heard 
On a warm summer's day, the scent of flowers, 
The honey-suckle which trailed round its porch, 
Its orchard, field, and trees, her universe! — 
I knew she could not long 1 be spared to me. 
Her sufferings, when alleviated best, 
Were most acute; and I could best perform 
That sacred task. I wished to lengthen out, — 
By consecrating to her every moment, — 
Her being to myself ! A life I prized, 
Not as that only of a tender mother, 
But as that of a character endowed 
With every attribute to excite at once 
Reverence and tenderness : and latterly 
She seemed to me, so exemplary was 
Her resignation, so sublime her patience, 
Not only spite of insuppressive pangs, 
But even more so seemed she from these pangs, 
A saint ! Though wasting in her bodily frame, 
A spirit raised above mortality, 
And by anticipating heaven on earth 
Beatified below. Could I leave her ? — 
I might have seen her, — such was D'Ormond's plea- 
Each day. But who her evening hours could cheer? 
Her long and solitary evening hours ? — 
Talk her, or haply sing her, to her sleep? — 



134 THE DUKE p'ORMOND, 

Read to her ? smooth her pillow ? Lastly make 
Morning seem morning with a daughter's welcome ? 
For morning's light ne'er visited her eyes ! — 
Well f I refused to quit her! D'Ormond grew 
Absent, reserved, nay splenetic and petulant ! 
He left the Province, nor has he once sent 
A kind enquiry so t'alleviate 
His heavy absence. 

COUNT COLVILLE. 

You have done 
Your duty. — I will be with you to-morrow 
At any time that you may choose to appoint: 
When we will to Duke D'Ormond' s house proceed. 

JULIA. 

At noon, if it so please you. Now, good sir, 
Accept the only boon which I can offer, 
The fervent incense of a grateful heart. 
I now retire. Next to the trust I have 
In heaven's mercy, and protecting care, 
The consciousness that you will be my friend 
Will most alleviate the cruel hours 
Of worn anxiety, that, till to-morrow, 
It will be mine to spend; and most support 
My drooping spirits, till the moment come 
For th' interview so wished for, and so feared. 
Farewell! Believe me bound to you for ever. 



A TRAGEDY, 135 

COUNT COLVILLE. 

My blessing on you ! May th' almighty arm 
Protect you ; and his gracious spirit pour 
A healing balm into your wounded breast* 



END OF ACT THE SECOND. 



THIRD ACT. 

SCENE THE FIRST. 

The Hotel of the Marchioness de Mielcour. 

THE MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR. 

THESE men, what fools do they become, when 

once 
We have enslaved them. Here I Courtenaye see, 
And the Duke D'Ormond crawling at my feet! 
Do I love Courtenaye ? That I cannot tell. 
Love the Duke D'Ormond? That's more puzzling 

still ! 
I scarcely know, or what, or whom, I love! 
1 only know, that, for my life's enjoyment, 
'Tis requisite that 1 indulge the love 
Of power, and pleasure ! Of my passions, first, 



136 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

The love of power is; second, that of pleasure! 
Courtenaye loves me, but loves his interest more ; 
This gives a spirit to his intercourse, 
And lends a piquancy to the attempt 
To vanquish him. The certainty I feel 
That I have yet to make myself the mistress, 
Not of the outworks of his character 
Alone, but also of its strong hold, gives 
Charms, to my restless spirit, to his commerce, 
Which I feel not in that of the Duke D'Ormond. 
Courtenaye brings most amusement, and the Duke 
Has not sufficiently a heart to give 

To be the object of a serious passion. 

As if he were to me the world in one 

He is as jealous and exacting; yet 

I see his spirit has its absences, 

Its infidelities, and reveries 

Of past-done things. Ought such an one to ask 

The entire homage of a single heart ? 

Besides his commerce,— if one so may speak, — 

Puts in one's hands no play. He does not make 

Any resistance ; and, absurd enough, 

Unsympathizing, ask for sympathy. 

He is all sentiment, and melancholy ; 

And say, what woman, if she had a spirit, 

E'er lik'd a sentimental paramour. 

What woman e'er, if she had spirit, liked 

One that capitulates when first attacked? 

Besides, I half despise him. This I know 



A TRAGEDY. 137 

That he another lady has forsaken, 
With more of that which gives love warranty- 
Endowed, aye infinitely more, than that 
To which I can lay claim ! Ami not fallen ? 
Fallen irrecoverably ? In my own esteem 
I am : and self-blame sets the seal to that 
Which constitutes essentially a fall. 
What though 1 still have too much pride t'admit 
A partner in the consciousness of this, 
The worm that gnaws within me, and that preys 
E'en on my very vitals, — till at last 
It shall consume me, — forces on my soul 
A dire conviction I may not evade. 
One day it will consume me ! But as long 
As I can hinder it, external mark, 
Sigh, tear, complaint, or any other sign 
Of inward heaviness, shall ne'er attest 
Its ravages. When I am only fit 
To be compassionated, — since I can, 
Without self-loathing, ne'er be so, — let me 
Be so placed that I must be, what I should 
If otherwise it could be, — uncompassioned. 
I never saw one that could pity nobly. 
Those have I who could nobly have been pitied. 
But suffering is the charter of the noble, 
And he who has not its pernicious essence 
Lodged in his breast, of bliss was never worthy. 
But truce with all reflections ! In these veins 
While the tumultuous pulse of passion throbs, 



138 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

The high soli citings will I obey 
Of an impetuous temperament. Ye talk 
Of conquering worlds, tyrants of Macedon, 
And Rome ! What are your proudest boasts com- 
pared 
With those of even slighted woman? Our's 
Is the dominion o'er the human heart ! 
The noblest empire this ! The passions we — 
You sway — of that high creature man — alone 
The bodily functions ! and not e'en these 
Till ye have first debased him to the brute, 
And robbed him of his noblest patrimony, — 
A patrimony imprescriptible 
To those who chuse to keep it — Liberty ! 
More glorious an achievement in my thought 
Than subjugation of the universe, 
The subjugation of one human heart ! 

f Enter Courtenaye). 

COURTENAYE. 

You love me not, Maria. 

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR. 

Of all men 
You have least reason to make this assertion. 

COURTENAYE. 

Duke IVOrmond? Aye, confess now, the Duke 
D'Ormond ? 



A TRAGEDY. 139 

MARCHIONESS I)E MIELCOUR. 

What ? Would you first intreat me to allure him, 
And then reproach me for the scheme's success ? — 

courtenaye f aside). 
Yet, must I wear the mask of amorous dalliance ; 
It suits my purpose best ; else would she not, 
(High as her nature is) yield that to interest, 
Which now she thinks she yields to love, for me. 

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR. 

Talk not to me thus, Courtenaye, think you not 
My conduct towards him, of my love for you, 
Proof most convincing? Have I not consented 
For you to do that which no other man 
Would dare to ask me, and which by no other, 
And for no other, as I ne'er was asked, 
Much less did 1 ever resolve, to do : — 
To be your instrument have I not agreed, 
That, to your purpose, more effectively 
He may be won ? — 

( Aside). 
Fool! let him, if he can, believe eJI this! 
Woe be to him, who, of his feilow beings 
Makes a convenient tool, if he should chance 
To aim at this, when with accomplice leagued 
More comprehensive both in scope of thought, 
From higher, and from wider range of feelings, 
With more resources from a richer nature ; 



140 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

With one more subtle and more circumspect. 
The greatest insult man to man can shew 
Is, in emergency, of him to make 
Slave of th' occasion ! What must this then be 
When woman is by man insulted thus ? — 
Woman defenceless by her nature? Hell 
A crime torments not fit to match with this! 

COURTENAYE, 

(Who, during her soliloquy had been 
walking to and fro on the back part 
of the room, returning to the Mar- 
chioness.) 
Then you do not love D'Ormond ? 

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR (aside). 

Help me here, 
Ye powers that wait on woman to dissemble. 

(To Courtenaye). 
Can you love one who at your very feet 
Crawls ? Can you value him who values not 
Himself ? When once a man into one's breast 
Has poured forth all the mysteries of his nature, 
He's like a casket of its jewels stripped. 
Then curiosity is consummate!— 
That fatal is. Ambition too is sated ! — 
That is more fatal ! — Lastly, all the stress 
Which both to passions nam'd, and nameless, brings 
Excitement, is no more ; all energy 



A TRAGEDY. 141 

To stimulate, to interest, at an end ! — 
This is more fatal still ! But at his door 
Lies yet a deeper sin, not negative, 
But positive: a sin it is, in man, 
By woman not to be forgiven ! He, 
'Stead of amusing, wants to be amused! — 
What mistress could endure to be obliged 
To take the burthen wholly on herself 
To be love's purveyor ? He is consumed 
By deep remorse. And, self-dissatisfied, 
As others thus estranged from natural joy, 
And all spontaneous cheerfulness, is doomed 
Living to sepulture ; repining, froward, 
And fraught with most fastidious selfishness ! 
As to a Circe, he to me repairs, 
That I, by draughts of passion, may divide 
Him, by intoxication, from his thoughts. — 
Now his Aspasia, now his iEsculapius ; 
Llis recreation, — or — his medicine chest!— 
Any thing may I rather be to him 
Than mistress of his heart ! Give me a man 
That is romantic, or is vain enough, 
E'n in the dream of love, to deem that he 
Subjugates me, that mightily enhances 
The dear delight of subjugating him. 

COURTENAYE. 

You are a wondrous creature ! Born to prove 
What nature can, in a munificent, 



142 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

And frolic mood produce ; when satiate 

Of treading in a customary path, 

She would give evidence of original power. — 

Like those who play at chess, you take us all 

For men of wood, and move us to your purpose 

As life were merely a fantastic game. 

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR (aside). 

So be it. — It my purpose suits most well 
That he should think so. 

(To Courtenaye). 
I allow you, Courtenaye, 
At least a castle's privilege: for here 
Am I by you immured, 

COURTENAYE. 

Immured ! I wish 
Only that you should hold yourself select 
For the Duke's visit for a little week. — 
One little week is all! But a truce now 
With these superfluous episodes. I wish 
Now to converse most seriously with you. 
If you love me, now is the time to prove it. 

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR. 

If I love you ! Name but the proof which you 
Require of me, and see if I do not, 
To the least tittle, execute your wish. 
But first, let me retire a little instant, 



A TRAGEDY. 143 

To urge an order, till Duke D'Ormond come, 
To give admission to no visitor. 

[Exit. 

COURTENAYE (ctlonej. 

That I'm his heir, being his father's nephew 

On my mother's side, and that my name is Villeneuve^ 

This, as she little does suspect, by me 

So shall she ne'er be told, till my schemes are 

For such disclosure ripe. For knowing this, 

As she would then perceive how it imports 

To my aggrandizement that D'Ormond falls, 

She would at once see through my stratagems ; 

And of my actions every tendency, 

And bearing, of a circumventive nature 

Conducive to the ruin of Duke D'Ormond, 

Knowing my weal dependent on his woe, 

She would at once discern ! Her noble nature 

Would utterly revolt, if she knew all 

Both of my projects, and my means to make them 

Desperately bear on the Duke D'Ormond's fate. 

( The Marchioness re-enters J. 

COURTENAYE, 

(To the Marchioness de Mielcour, both seated). 
Of my past life, though you know not the whole, 
You know the greatest part. You know that I 
Though wealthy once, am now a ruined man. 



144 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

Chance has thrown D'Ormond in my way : he's rich ; 

A little of his wealth would do me service. 

Of him I cannot make a man of pleasure, 

Much less a man of dissolute life. He must 

Be, by his passions, not his senses, ruled. — 

With inextinguishable appetite 

For sympathy — in men of temperament 

Like to his own, which is so often found, — 

He is peculiarly endowed. Indeed, 

No more, as I conjecture, could he live 

Without some object, — or fantastical, 

Or real, — for bis heart, — no matter which,— 

For both amount to the same thing' with him, — 

Than other men without the vital air, 

Save through the fascination of your sex, 

No hold have I on him. To fascinate him 

Try; and use all your powers to enslave him. 

So shall his absent fair, — in some sort, who 

Is still to him as an external conscience, 

Be from his memory razed. Of this world's goods 

He nothing heeds. The heart, — and that alone, — 

And its fantastic joys or miseries 

Constitute his sole universe. — Of walks 

Which, during evenings of the summer past, 

He with his mistress took, still will he rave 

Of the warm breezes stealing from some bank, — 

Where the pale primrose, and the violet grew, — 

Choicest perfumes, and playing on their cheeks, 

Or with the crisped tresses of his love. 



A TRAGEDY. 145 

Of her frank confidence bewitching him 

With its sincerity, and innocence ! 

Of converse, though spontaneous, pure and calm 

As that, which, in the abodes of Paradise, 

Immortal spirits with each other hold. — 

From him eradicate, I do beseech you, 

All these pedantic rhapsodies. If you 

But have the will, you have the power, to do it. 

You can, with our sex, with your heaven of 

beauty, 
Do any thing, you know you can; this knowledge 
Gives you the liberty of spirit to do it. 
Root, root them out ! and make him your's ; and 

then 
He's mine for ever ! Then he is as much 
To my shrine brought, as any victim ever 
To the fantastic gods of Greece or Rome ! 

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR (aside). 

Mean, despicable wretch ! He little thinks 

The effect his exhortations have on me ! — 

To what fools, vanity, dost thou tranform 

Men of some talents ! Till this moment never 

So loathed I Courtenaye, nor so well loved D'Or- 

mond ! 
But now to have the real sway, I must, 
In my turn, simulate ! What intercourse 
Is this ! To this we bring ourselves by vice ! 



146 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

^Comrades in guilt, however they commence 
With love most ardent, soon begin to fear 
Each other, then to hate, and finally 
Mutually to seek in secret to contrive 
The ruin of each other ! 

(To Courtenaye). 

All shall be 
Done as you counsel. Well you know I cannot 
Refuse you any thing. 

[A knock is heard. 

COURTENAYE. 

But D'Ormond comes. 
Here is his picture, which to you I promised : 
Wear it, but not exposed : and, in exchange 
Give me my own : be quick. Retire, I pray you, 
I fain would here awhile converse with D'Orniond : 
And if of you he catch but one slight glance 
I scarcely shall arrest his absent thoughts. 

[The Marchioness de Mielconr goes 
out, darting towards Courtenaye, 
unperceived by him, a look of the 
most profound contempt.] 

* The love of wicked friends converts to fear, 
That fear to hate, and this brings one, cr both, 
To worthy danger, and deserved death. 

Shakspeare. 



A TRAGEDY. 147 

courtenaye ( alone j. 
Cursed chance ! Thus have I this night ventured all, 
All that I had to lose, and lost it all! 
Duke D'Ormond ne'er came as he promis'd. Well ! 
I must allow him, for a little time, 
To feel at liberty ; like bird, with thread 
Invisible, of gossamery woof, 
Ensnared, that, having yet not tried to fly 
Beyond its tether, knows not 'tis a prisoner : 
Then will I pounce upon him, and transfer 
All his rich acres to my now 7 drained purse. 
Besides, although he know it not, — and though 
I take good care that others know it not, — 
I, next of kin, am of his wealth the heir, 
Though, since i'th' female line, not of his title. 
A home-thrust I must make! Things, many days, 
Cannot remain, as now they are, and I 
Be visible in Paris. This same night 
Thy doom, Duke D'Ormond, shall be consummated. 
To-night shalt thou be in De Mielcour's arms 
Imparadis'd ; but to that paradise, — 
As to the happy dwellers in thy clime, 
Oh Eden, — shall a lasting hell succeed. 
Satiety will soon come ! Soonest, best ! — 
Provided with it liberty come not ! — 
I will take care to rivet well his chains ; 
And make him scoop out, — as with his own hands,— 
A bottomless pit of everlasting woe. 
I can frame circumstances so, — from this 
l2 



148 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

His passion for the Marchioness de Mielcour, — 

That — with his turbulent impetuousness, 

And exquisite conscience, — he shall so transgress 

Against the laws of honour, as respects 

His former love, that this alternative 

Alone remains to him, — to die a victim ; — 

And then I quietly ascend his seat; — 

Or, — from his conscience being in my power, — 

And from that recklessness which deep remorse, 

Especially in minds so sensitive 

Produces — so to have his master-key — 

Like that of instrument of music— touched, 

That all his purposes I subjugate. 

(Enter the Duke D'OrmondJ. 

DUKE D'ORMOND. 

What Courtenaye, are you here? It seems, me- 

thinks, 
These few days past, you haunt me, not unlike 
One's shadow, both in constancy and gloom. 

courtenaye (aside). 
Jealous, by Jupiter ! I did not think 
That he was yet so far by passion master'd. 
Here's a new tool with which to clench his fetters ! 
I will so little, and so much, as suits 
My purpose, on this weakness work, to me 
Delectably adapted ! and that other — 



A TRAGEDY. 149 

The quick suspicion which cleaves evermore 
To men of sensibility, and makes 
Them exquisitely shrink from ridicule. 

(To the Duke). 
What, are you jealous, Duke? — 

DUKE D'ORMOND. 

No, no! Not jealous! 
You well may claim certain prescriptive right 
From intercourse previous to mine with her, 
To commerce with the Marchioness de Mielcour : 
But let me this gently insinuate, — 
Not, since thus, that 1 am less absolute 
That, — save on public opportunities, — 
Your visits here will be, — to me at least — 
Welcome proportionably as they are rare. 

COURTENAYE, 

(Aside, but loud enough for the Duke to hear J. 
How would he blame his passion, could he know 
What fondness prompted her to say of him ! 

(To the Duke J. 
What — man of sentiment as you are — cannot 
You comprehend that a fond heart which is 
Wronged with reserves by the object of its love, — 
If not entirely slighted, kept at distance, — 
Will seek almost instinctively for one 
To whom it may disburthen its repressed, 
And unrequited sensibilities. 



150 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

duke d'ormond (aside). 
Oh, could I once believe 'twere so ! 
(To Courtenaye). 

But how 
Do you from hence infer necessity 
For commerce 'twixt the Marchioness and you ? — 

COURTENAYE, 

(Aside, but still purposely loud enough for the 
Duke to hear). 
On his romantic generosity, 
On his too exquisite refinement, T 
Fear its effects, especially should not 
The passion be reciprocal in him.— 
A nature like to his should I tell him 
Her love's excess, from its excess of honour 
Might thence be irretrievably induced 
Its freedom to surrender: and till I 
Learn if her boundless passion be returned, 
How can I risk disclosure of her secret?— 
I am perplexed! 

(To the Duke, as if suddenly roused from 
deep meditation). 
But how from hence, say you, 
Do I infer necessity for commerce 
'Twixt myself and the Marchioness ? 'Tis well, 
Well acted, on my life ! This infantine 
Unconsciousness most marvellously fits 
A person altogether so unskilled 



A TRAGEDY. 151 

As you, in arts to win the softer sex ! 

Let not a swift involuntary smile 

Of incredulity, that will reveal 

My thoughts, by you be construed into rudeness. 

DUKE D'ORMOND. 

No more perplex me ! What does all this mean ? 

Of " exquisite refinement'' on my part, 

" Romantic generosity ?" — For I — 

Though sure you meant it not, — o'erheard your 

speech, 
And " boundless passion on the lady's?" 

COURTENAYE. 

How 
Have I betray'd her, and myself! These walls 
Must be constructed like a whispering gallery! 

DUKE D'ORMOND. 

You agonize me! Be explicit. Once, — 
Once in your life, prove that you are my friend. 

COURTENAYE, 

(Affecting not to hear the Duke, and to he in such 
a state of abstraction that he is insensible to 
the presence of any second person). 
Then her consummate delicacy. She 
Has rumours of a prior preference heard. 
Would it not be ungenerous, base, to tell 



152 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

Her secret, 'till the Duke had given proof 
Of being weaned from all anterior ties ? — 
It would — it would ! 1 must be cautious ! — 



DUKE DORMOND. 

You 
Will drive me mad ! I cannot bear it more ! 

[Drawing his sword. 
Am I to deem you as my friend, or rival ? 

COURTENAYE, 

/'Affecting a loud laugh of surprise). 
By Jove, most excellent ! Rival indeed ! 

/Aside J. 
I see I've stung his soul now to a pitch 
Just fitting for my purpose. 

(To the Duke). 

Rival indeed ! 
She had a moderate regard for me. 
Too rational, too phlegmatic, it was 
To flatter me. And that is over now, 
All over! Ceesar-like you've crossed my path, 
And, like him, you may say, I came, I saw, 
I conquer'd. 

DUKE D'ORMOND. 

Listen Courtenaye. — I cannot 
Value the favours of the brightest dame 
Till first I know that I possess her heart. 



A TRAGEDY. 153 

Idol I must be of, the universe 

I must be to, the woman that / love! — 

A wandering" of the eye, a sentiment 

Uttered in absent tone, a look, a gesture, 

Vacant expression of the countenance, 

Which made it questionable whether one — 

A spirit paramount — and that the spirit 

Of most idolatrous fondness — did pervade 

Her entire being", would, to my repose, — 

To my desires, be fatal. Think, then — think, — 

What must my feeliugs be, in finding you, — 

A man notorious for promiscuous intrigue, 

And libertine adventure, — more than this,— 

Although, to say it, I know, will but feed 

Your vanity, now too exorbitant, 

Yet still will I repeat it, — you, a man 

Notorious for successful gallantry ; 

What must my feelings be, 1 say, to find 

Such an one closetted in secret converse 

With her my heart is bursting to obtain ? 

COURTENAYE. 

But let me state a case. A fond heart feign — 
And here you need not feign — overflowing with 
Excess of tenderness ! Further suppose 
The object on the which that heart is fixed 
Itself, irresolute is, and dilatory; 
Mysteriously cautious in surrendering 
Up its whole self to this devoted heart ? 



154 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

Cruel surmises, anxious conflicts, must 

Be the result of this, in her who thus 

Feels, — with a circumspective guardedness, — 

Wholly unmerited by her profound 

Self-dedication, — herself wronged; — yet such 

Her love, she rather weeps in solitude, 

Than seeks on that wrong to recriminate. 

Will such an one, in such predicament, 

Occasion not most naturally seek, 

Into the bosom of a long tried friend 

Her sorrows to disburthen ? Such has been 

The character of this night's colloquy 

Betwixt the Marchioness and me. She loves you, 

Dotes on you ; loves you to distraction, Duke ! 

Could you so cold, so unimpassioned be 

As with contemptuous levity to treat her ? 

Mo, you could not ! Have I not now well proved 

Myself your friend ? Do j^ou suppose the task 

I have imposed upon myself, — to that, 

With which perhaps you've not without cause taxed 

me, 
My vanity, — is acceptable? — No! — 
I'm galled; but Fm your friend! and friendship now 
Unseals my lips, which honour else had closed. 
But let me not suppose that I've betrayed 
Her honour, in this proof of zeal for you. 
A fear lest this might be the case, alone 
Has kept that secret, which some four months past, 
The Marchioness imparted first to me. 



A TRAGEDY. 155 

DUKE D'ORMOND. 

Now, Edward, now indeed you are my friend ! 
Older are you than I, and in the world, 
And in its ways, more deeply have been trained. 
Oh, could I trust that that which you have said 
To me, were true ; were literally true, 
I were the happiest man on earth ! But I 
Am new to men and manners. Can I think 
That, — from the many polished cavaliers 
Who seek her favour, — she can turn aside 
To one who's still in his noviciate r — 

COTJRTENAYE. 

As proof of it, look at this picture here. 

It is a likeness of myself I gave her 

Just ere you came to Paris. She has this 

Returned to me within the last half hour, 

Assuring me that equally the depth, 

And delicacy of her love for you, 

Forbid her longer, free from self-reproach, 

To have possession of a bauble, once 

Given to her as pledge of my regard. 

At the same moment, she has, from my hands, 

Received a picture of yourself, which you, 

As you may recollect, gave to my keeping 

Some four months since, and which you now will 

find 
Tied round her neck. Discovering that I had it, 
She, with an eagerness I scarce could brook, 



156 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

For many weeks past has begged it of me : 
Loth was I to agree to this exchange, 
Implying such a mortifying preference; 
At last, won by her importunities, 
I promised it : and I this evening brought — 
When you of me so needlessly were jealous — 
That, on the one hand, which her love for you 
Made her so highly prize, and took from her 
Th' humiliating proof of her indifference. 

(Aside J. 
If this to him seem not apochryphal, 
I now may deem him my affianced dupe. 

DUKE D'ORMOND. 

Ah Courtenaye, how can I express to you, 

In worthy terms, my gratitude? How could I 

De Mielcour misjudge thee thus ? — 

COURTENAYE (dsidej. 

Yes, with his proneness to become the victim 
Of female fascination, and my power 
To work upon his jealousy, from long 
Previous intelligence with his fair mistress, — 
E'en had I no more instruments than these 
To set at work, I may, as I could wish, 
Keep him at bay. — 

(To the Duke J. 
But why waste we our time 
Discoursing here? The Marchioness de Mielcour, 



A TRAGEDY. 157 

Breathless with expectation, waits for you 
In yon apartment. 

DUKE D'ORMOND. 

Wherefore did you not 
Intimate this to me an hour ago? — 
You might havesav'd me from a world of anguish ? 

court en aye (aside J, 
Whereby I've gained a world in expectation. 

(To the Duke). 
Why, look you, Duke, it is exorbitant 
To quarrel with a half-hour of suspense, 
If that be harbinger to ecstacy ! — 
Meantime, I own, I somewhat have exceeded 
A gentleman usher's function. But reflect 
While you are gaining, I had to resign ; 
And tell me now, have not I, with good grace, 
Exchanged a higher, for a lower post ? 

DUKE D'ORMOND. 

Adieu till midnight. Courtenaye you sup here? 
You come then in no questionable shape. 

[Exit. 

COURTENAYE (alone). 

Au revoir. This, to him, shall be a banquet 
Fatal, though not so bloody, as that given 



158 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

By Atreus to Thyestes. I will pledge him 
Deep in Circean nectar. The last link 
Of his chain shall be rivetted to-night. 

(Enter Despard). 

DESPARD. 

Courtenaye, well met, of all men in the world, 
You are the one whom most I wished to see. 
I to your house have been; not finding you, 
Hither was I directed thence. My heart 
Bursts for relief till to your friendly ears, 
I have divulged th' adventures of the day. 
Oh Courtenaye, I think you'll scarce credit me, 
When Lrepeat to you this evening's chance. 
The pleasantest, at least the one most pregnant, 
With various interest, that I ever met with. 
You know I tracked a fair incognita 
This evening from our bacchanalian orgies, 
I pray you guess, though 'twill be to no purpose 
Although you rack your brain from now 'till dooms- 
day, 
Guess, who this heroine turns out to be. 

COURTENAYE. 

Some demirep I'll warrant. None but those 
Whose reputation nothing can repair 
Would enter on an intrigue with a man 



A TRAGEDY. 159 

Of your dilapidated patrimony ; 

And with not wit enough for one short hour 

To play a part consistently. — 

DESPARD. 

You've missed 
The mark, quite miss'd it. My fair paramour, 
As yet, plays an involuntary part. 
She's innocent, and pure, as driven snow ; 
And beauteous as an angel ! — 

COURTENAYE. 

Angel ! Tush !— 
An angel and yourself could not exist 
One hour in the same hemisphere. 
(A side J. 

I must 
Feign incredulity to get his secret ; 
And then I must abatement make of half 
Of that which he asserts ; his vanity 
Leads him to fictions so extravagant. 

(To Despard.J 
"Angel" forsooth ! and " pure as driven snow." 
Why all the devils in a female shape 
The world e'er saw, with you contrasted, might 
Seem such. 

DESPARD. 

But D'Ormond's mistress ? What think you 
O'th' fair incognita of La Vendee ? 



160 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

courtenaye (aside). 
This is worth listening to. 

(To Despard). 

You are romancing ? 

DESPARD. 

No. 
The very lady — since he reverenced her 
Too much her name to mention — about whom 
We've been so often with conjectures puzzled, 
She in my power is : and a prize more glorious 
Never the blood warmed, or inspired the lays, 
Of a Provencal cavalier or bard ! — 

COURTENAYE. 

What is her name ? 

DESPARD. 

Curse my overmastered spirit, 
Overmaster' d by her dignity of virtue, 
I never thought to ask it: if I had 
She would not have vouchsafed to answer me. 

COURTENAYE. 

Fool that you are ! In the main point are you 
Deficient ! Here's a tale without a title! 
How did you find her out ? How learn her tale? 
How bring her to your dwelling ? 



A TRAGEDY. 161 

DESPARD. 

If you please 
One question at a time. You saw me leave 
Your company in haste. I had espied 
By light of lamps hung in the colonnade 
Which flanks the house in which we banqueted, 
A damsel, young, and lovely, and alone, 
Enter a chariot. I contrived, by speed, 
To keep it in my sight, until it stopped 
At the Count Colville's door. Night favour 1 d me. 
From questions, which, while skulking near her 

chariot, 
I heard her ask of him who drove her thither, 
I not alone learned that she was a stranger, 
But with entire simplicity, to me 
The most accommodating, nothing knew 
Of town-bred manners. I found out that she 
Meant to return to th' house from whence she came. 
The entrance of my own is not unlike 
That of the one which she had quitted. I 
Thus deemed it better not to intercept 
Her going to Count Colville's house, because 
While there she tarried I might hasten on 
To my own door, which fortunately stands 
Much about the same distance from Count Colville's 
As the hotel from whence she first set forth. 
Thus might she easily take one for t'other, 
As she designed, as I before expressed 
The latter to regain ; thus set I forward 

M 



162 THE DUKE D'oRMOND, 

To my own house, not only with intent 
My servants to prepare for her reception, 
But also one to send to Colville's door, 
To see my bidding to the charioteer, 
Whom with a bribe I had already won, 
To carry her to mine, exactly followed. 
Every thing chanc'd according to my wish. 
The darkness of the night, her ignorance 
Of Paris, and the close resemblance 'twixt 
The entrance of my dwelling, and the one 
Belonging to the hotel she had quitted. — 
Which, in my memory, was residence 
Of an ambassador, — prevented her, — 
Till she had passed my threshold, and already 
Was in my custody, — from fearing guile.~- 

COURTENAYE. 

Have you ta'en 'special care your lady be 
Well guarded in her lodging ? Lock and key, 
Have you peremptory command of these? — 

DESPARD. 

Trust me for that. A mouse could not escape 
Without my sufferance. 

COURTENAYE. 

So far very well. 
Am I to understand that Pm indebted 
To vanity for your frank confidence, 



A TRAGEDY, 168 

Which with its plethora would burst, if it 
Did not relieve itself; or may you have 
Connected with the adventure of the night, 
Any commands to tax my service with ? 
If so I'm your's. 

(A side J. 
My superintendence here 
Is indispensable. 

DESPARD. 

There, Courtenaye, you 
Have the right cause assigned for my disclosure. 
Though I doubt not but that this lady has 
From the Count heard Duke D'Ormond's faithless- 
ness, 
Yet still she raves of him ! It would be told 
By him, in such a dainty, choice selection 
Of circumlocutory ambages ; — 
Besides she is so innocent, unsuspecting, 
Had it not been thus told, her breast so is 
Incapable of guessing to what height 
Vice is indulged, and with what shameless front 
It stalks forth, in this gay metropolis; 
That — these things being so — e'en her worst sus- 
picions 
Would fall far short of the reality. 
You may be sure that at the moment I— 
By immolating expeditiously — 
Wished to secure my victim to myself. 
m 2 



164 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

Yet, curses on me, she apostrophized 
My better feelings, — feelings, I knew not 
That I possessed, till I had heard her speak, — 
So irresistibly, that 1 was led 
Not to enforce possession of her person, 
Till (that I thus might alienate her heart 
From its strong prepossession in his favour) 
I, like a fool, had blabbed out the extent 
Of the Duke's infidelity. This caused 
A fit of swooning, from the which, ere I 
Quitted her, she was but enough recovered 
To be, supported by two persons, led 
To a neighbouring chamber. 

COURTENAYE. 

Hear ! a sudden thought, 
E'en as you spoke, has struck me. At midnight 
Have the Duke D'Ormond and the Marchioness 
Invited me en tiers to a banquet. — 
For the catastrophe devoutly wished 
By me, i'faith, but I will prime him well ! 
And if I can fit coadjutors find, 
Though it is somewhat perilous, — yet who 
E'er heard of scheme that is to consummate, 
And in few hours, a complicated plot, 
That was not perilous proportionably 
To its decisiveness ? — Yes, yes! If I 
Fit coadjutors can select, 1 will 
Mould to mv wish his destinies for ever. 



A TRAGEDY. 165 

Hear me. To-night shall D'Ormond, and BeMielcour, 

Repose on their first nuptial couch ! No couch 

For him of roses, but eternal thorns ! 

Yes, this night I've decreed that all my schemes 

Shall be consummated. So I ere this 

Had purposed, but this last intelligence 

Of the arrival of his former love 

My earnestness redoubles: 'tis a portent 

Which to a crisis all at once matures 

My former indefatigable toils. 

So when a long train of combustibles 

Subtly is laid, if once the fated spark 

Be struck, what fierce explosion bursts at once 

From all the quiet vaults in which they lay. 

I have, as I had skill to do it, played 

Upon him with a simulated tale 

Of fancied injuries towards the Marchioness, 

From slights, and coldness, she has felt from him. 

The Duke — like valetudinarian epicure 

Who flavours craves, and subtle essences, 

To stimulate his appetite — must have 

His very pleasures, and voluptuous pastimes 

Seasoned with metaphysic condiments. 

I doubt, indeed, if pleasure had enough 

Of dainty excitation, for his taste, 

Were it not spiced — as we in costly banquets 

Produce at last most piquant relishes, 

And often most esteemed when most unnatural, 

With keen anticipations of remorse ! — 



106 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

A certain casuistry, a daringness 

Of venturing somewhat on forbidden regions, 

A prying into nature's mysteries, 

The dark, th' indefinite, th' obscure, the doubtful, 

All these are indispensable to give 

Meet pungency to it, when the Duke D'Ormond 

Selects an object for his appetites. 

If he were cheaply so, he were not blessed 

E'en in paradisaical abode. — 

The staking his eternal interest 

In a nocturnal revel, wondrously 

Adds to its charms with him. Do you, to-morrow, 

Precisely at the hour of matins, bring 

Your nameless fair into his presence, while 

His passion yet is raised to the highest pitch, 

And as a loathsome weed he'll cast her off. 

DESPARD. 

You are my master-spirit. — I will be 
Governed by your direction. 

COURTENAYE. 

If the blow 
Be once struck, it will surely " trammel up 
With its surcease, success." Let him cast off 
His mistress once : she then is wholly your's. 
For though he never told to me her name, 
I have heard him say she had no friend on earth 
Except an aged mother. 



A TRAGEDY. 167 

DESPARD. 

She is dead.— 
To that her mourning garments bear a witness. 
Also that which she said of being released 
From house of sorrow, and a death-bed scene, 

COURTENAYE. 

She has then no protector but yourself, 

And what your own deserts could not achieve 

Necessity may work for you, How soon 

Soe'er remorse Duke D'Ormond seize, no matter, 

Be this point once obtained ! The soonest, best! 

Only take care, that, in this juncture, you 

Co-operate firmly. If remorse seize him 9 

He is not one of your steel-fibred heroes, 

Who boldly will confront its menaces, 

And hold a parley with it. No : he must 

Have stimulants; and what so probable, 

In what is he so sure to be overmatched, — 

If his soul from its centre be disturbed, — 

And he with my longer experience cope,— 

As, — last resource, when disinherited, 

Of those who thought themselves the sons of bliss — 

The gaming table? 'Stablish him once there, 

And our prosperity is past all doubt. 

DESPARD. 

I understand the drift of your contrivance; 
It pleases me ; and I address myself 
To execute it promptly. Now farewell. 



168 THE DUKE D'ORMOND* 

COURTENAYE. 

Farewell ! Remember, Bespard, I now trust 

To your discretion, and arbitrement 

The master-spring-, the potent spell, from whence 

All the complexion of our future days, 

Whether or prosperous or adverse fortune 

Fall to our lot, exclusively depend. 

[Exit Despard. 

COURTENAYE falonej, 

I every moment now expect a summons 

To inform me that my servants wait my pleasure 

To attend me to the Marchioness de Mielcour's. 

Now must the irrevocable blow be struck ! 

Within this very hour am I to meet 

The Duke with his De Mielcour at my side 

To second my endeavours. True, she knows 

Nought of my projects. But no less is she — 

Rather the more so — since unconscious — 

Fit instrument to work my purposes. 

Not knowing all my ends, and all my means 

To work those ends, she maybe influenced 

Oft to co-operate, when otherwise — 

If she knew all— difference of character 

Might militate against my stratagems. 

Thus seeming less to do so — since the end 

Not seems— do I the more do that which seems not, 

But is; and passes all mere semblances ! — 

To-night must union of the Duke with her 



A TKAGEDY. 169 

Consummate that of mine with prosperous fortune. 

Passion, which causes others to be victims, 

And conscience which makes one of its possessor, 

Unite in D'Ormond. One into itself 

Too much absorbs all objects not to ask 

A victim ! and too scrupulous the other 

Respecting those same objects not to be, 

Even, as 'tis the likeliest chance, if not 

So by a self-retributory act, 

By a fix'd fate, predestined to destruction. 

Him have I cloom'd to be t* himself a victim ! 

My thoughts are yet confused : but a dim notion 

That he would spurn his former mistress from him 

If she were introduced to him abruptly 

While yet his soul is revelling in bliss 

From new-born transports with the Marchioness. 

And thence, by nice attention on my part 

To the shades of — and opportunities 

For working on — his irritable passions, 

That he might so be made the instrument 

(By spurning her from him whom most he cherished, 

Most lov'd, and most devoutly reverenced) 

Of her destruction; and, from thence, of his : 

By the fatalities which, in the train, 

Lurk, of a wounded conscience ! All these thoughts, 

Rush, like peace-murdering, sleep-destroying fiends, 

In one impetuous torrent through my bosom. 

But then — ah ! — let me see ! He must not meet, 

A second time, her that once is mistress 



170 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

Both of his heart and conscience. Means must be 

Discovered for removing her from hence, 

After the interview, to my abode, 

Or that of Despard ! Yes, I see it all :— 

" Hear it not Duncan, for it is a knell 

That summons thee to heaven or to hell !" 



SCENE THE SECOND, 

An Apartment in the House of Despard. 

(Despard leading in Julia, from the vestibule, 
or hall of the house, in which he had met 
her, attempting to make her escape.) 

DESPARD, 

1 THOUGHT I had completely frustrated 
The possibility of such a meeting. 

(To Julia J. 
Where in such haste, good madam ? 

JULIA. 

Any where ! 
Any where, so that I may make escape 
From this ill mansion. 

DESPARD. 

But should I bring 
Good tidings ?— I one promise asked from you 



A TRAGEDY. 171 

A short time since ; you gave it ; and your flight 

Precipitate, induces me to think 

You are disposed to break it. I have so 

But poor encouragement to challenge you 

To another promise, on a strict compliance 

With all whose terms, and on whose strict fulfilment, 

All the complexion, of the hopes which rule 

Your future fate, exclusively depends. 

JULIA. 

What mean you, sir? 

DESPARD. 

Did I not, some hour past, 
Promise to inform you of the present state 
Of the Duke D'Ormond, having first expressed 
To you some other slight preliminaries, 
If you would promise that you would not seek 
T'escape from my protection? Did you not 
To all these terms agree ? — How am I then 
To understand this unannounced attempt 
At an elopement from your room, to which 
I thought that you were reconciled, at least 
For this one night? 

JULIA, 

I reconciled ! — If so, — 
It is the reconcilement of despair. 
But by what right do you assume the power- 



172 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

To interrogate me with authority? — 

'Tis a poor boast to trample thus on one 

Too weak for self-protection ! who has not — 

Or you would not presume to do it — one 

To stand her friend ! When I that promise made, 

(Whence you infer such plausible pretence 

To shackle me, and rivet so my chains 

That I am thus your wretched thrall for life) 

Had I not every reason to suppose 

That the disclosure you would make to me 

Of D'Ormond — if not satisfactory- — 

Would be, at least, definitive, and clear ?— 

Whereas, by that which you have utter' d you 

Have raised in me such horrible surmise, 

That I have now no hope, but in the hope 

That your reports are not authentical ! 

DESPARD. 

Be calm, be patient, madam ! In my power 
Now are you, and— 

JULIA. 

For this I can't be calm ! — 
You're like an executioner, who lifts 
The griding axe above his victim's head, 
And bids him — from til 1 unutterable depth 
Of his perception of power paramount, 
From the extreme of his despair — to smile ! 
Calm, — calm, indeed ! 



A TRAGEDY. 173 

DESPARD, 

(Stupidly and doggedly going on ; and 
from self-complacency not adverting to 
the apostrophe of Julia). 
I hold the clue, by which 
'Tis in your power t'unwind this labyrinth. 
It now depends on me, whether or ere 
To-morrow noon, or whether you no more 
Behold the Duke. 

Julia (aside J. 

E'en on the very verge 
Of what a precipice do I seem tottering ? 
All my life's hopes are turned to casualties. 
When I look at him, the vile instrument 
Seems incommensurate with such dread sway ! 



DESPARD. 



You answer not ! 



JULIA. 

Almighty God, is this 
In human nature ? Calmly to behold — 
Breathless with earnestness — a fellow creature 
Enduring absolutely, as it were 
Death-pangs t' obtain a good, which though it be 
Fantastic, is the all of earthly bliss 
To that heart-stricken one, — yea, every thing ? 



174 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

Yet, like an angler, can a human being — 
Dallying with.th'expectation of another, 
Torturing a writhing victim, which alas! 
He has inextricably snared already — 
Extract — from mere indulgence of his power 
To agonize— a calm, malicious joy. 

DESPARD. 

These are mere rhapsodies of powerless passion. 

JULIA. 

They're powerless, granted; not rhapsodical. 

For mercy's sake, not unrelentingly 

View pangs like mine ! You calmly play a part : 

While on the issue of the present hour 

I am a bankrupt, or enriched for ever ! — • 

From house of mourning, from a death-bed scene 

I am but just released. But that was heaven — 

For there religion was — compared with this ! — 

There pious trust was, there tranquillity ! — 

E'en in my tears was there infused a balm! — 

But now my brain is dry; or if I weep, 

Like marble damps, my unrelieving tears 

Unreconciling seem, unreconciled, 

As are the pangs which wring them from their 

source ! 
This, this is madness ! I am unprepared, 
Unfit, for such a conflict. — 



A TRAGEDY. 175 

DESPARD. 

Madam, think you 
That what I have to say will lessen it ? — 
I fear 'twill not! At least, not if the Duke 
Be its distinguished object, — Oh, that I 
Had, in your favour, such an interest, 
As to suffice to change your grief to joy ! 

JULIA. 

You're practising on my credulity ; 

My ignorance of the world, and apprehensions ! 

Into compliance would you torture me 

With that to which my lips can frame no utterance. 

fin an altered and softened tone). 
But I forget. Count Colville told me this. 
He hinted to me. — Oh, it is too much. 

[Sinks down in a chair. 

DESPARD. 

There is no method but to tell her all. 
If I do not, she ne'er will listen to me. 

JULIA, 

(With an hysterical wildness, which JDes- 
pard, in his stupidity r , mistakes for 
rage). 
What art thou muttering there thou fiend of hell? 



176 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

DKSPARD. 

(Approaching her, and endeavouring to 
throw his arms around her)* 
If you will have recourse to violence, 
I will give proof that I too can be violent. 
Are you for open war ? You, in this house, 
Are quite defenceless ! Here, I reign supreme ! — 
With a forbearing generosity, 
Which you abuse, too long I have treated you. 

JULIA. 

You generous ! you forbearing ! I despise 
Your mean unmanly threats! You may destroy me, 
But till that's done my will shall master your's. 
Oh, D'Ormond, could'st thou see thy Julia now! 

DESPARD, 

(Wrapt up in himself and not condescend* 
ing to heed her). 
Self-love is ruling principle of all, 
Of good, and bad alike. — The difference this. — 
Whose self-love is in sympathy with that 
Of other men, are called the good : — the bad, 
Wretches whose self-love is anomalous! 
You think your bliss depends on D'Ormond ; I 
That mine on you. Thus are we crossed alike. 
Which has most reason to upbraid the other ? 



A TRAGEDY. 177 

You are averse from my love, he from your's, — 

Or at least I, which comes to the same thing. 

Yet for an interview 'twixt him and you 

Willing am I to afford facilities, 

But only on the terms, as, on your part, 

Of certain condescensions, so on mine, 

Of certain stipulations, 

JULIA. 

Sir, proceed. 

DESPARD. 

Now hear me, madam — that to which I will, 
Without prevarication, pledge myself 
To execute, provided, on your side, 
You will an acquiescence promise me 
In consequences I anticipate. 

JULIA, 

Name them, sir. 

DESPARD. 

I, to-morrow, promise you, 
Unspotted as you are, to yield you up 
To the Duke's arms, if you will likewise promise, 
If he reject you, to return to mine. 

N 



178 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

JULIA, 

/"Aside, and deeply affected). 
Oh God ! Is he so fallen ? Somewhat of him 
This man must know ! Can he so fallen be 
As with such caitiffs live in fellowship ? 

DESPARD. 

What say you, madam, to this compromise ? 

julia (aside J. 
Oh, could I now prevaricate ? My God, 
What shall I do ? Do thou protect and guide 
My inexperienc'd youth ? Count Colville said 
That he at noon would call at the Duke's door. 
Did I not in the Duke find a protector, 
Surely I should in his once valued friend !— 
Could I but stipulate that I should be 
At that hour taken to Duke D'Ormond's house? — 

DESPARD* 

You seem absorbed in thought. — Pray answer me. 

julia (still aside J. 
Yet should I not be safe, at any rate, 
If I were once admitted to his presence ? 
There's comfort in that thought ! But should I be 
The dupe of hypocritical pretences ! 



A TRAGEDY. 179 

DESPARD. 

Sure you've had time enough to meditate 
Upon my proposition. 

JULIA. 

Yes — no — yes ! — 
What shall I say ? It is a fearful venture. 
Suppose he take me to some lonely place 
Far from the city ! I'm perplexed. 
(To Despard.J 

What hour 
Would you appoint for th' interview ? 

despard f aside). 

What hour ! — • 
Beshrew me if she's not her stratagems, 
As well as I my own. 

(To Julia J. 
At what hour ? What 
Can the hour signify ? Why, at the hour 
Which I shall chuse. — The matin bell shall be 
The signal for our going. 

JULIA. 

Better 'twere 
At noon ! 

despard. 
My fair enchantress, no ! 
n 2 



180 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

(Aside J. 

V faith, 
I 'gin to think she has her emissaries 
To do her bidding*. Can she — no— have tampered 
With Madame D'Orvilie, or my pursuivants? 
That is impossible ! But yet it looks 
Suspicious, thus to stipulate the time. 
However, 'tis enough, that hour should not 
Be, since 'tis her, my choice. 

(To Julia J. 

No, at the hour 
Of matins; I thought you were all impatient 
To see DukeD'Ormond. What can work this change? 
If all impatient, why thus cruelly 
Defer the interview ? — 

julia f aside). 

Hypocrisy, 
How difficult to those to simulate 
Untaught by thee ! 

(To Despard). 
Because, sir — why because — 
I wish, — I think, — the hour of matins sure 
Is too importunate for the modes of Paris. 
Because — sir — why because — 1 wish it so — 
Is it not early ? 

despard (aside). 
And I do not wish it, 
Because you wish it. Here is artifice. 



A TRAGEDY. 181 

Besides with one who is so dear to you, 
As you affirm Duke D'Ormond is, to whom 
You are so dear, vain ceremony 'tis 
To make exception at an early hour, 

julia (aside). 
Should he have fixed upon that early hour, 
Because with less chance of detection, he 
May thus decoy me into further danger ? 
I fear — I greatly fear — his purposes. — 
How wretched 'tis to be defenceless thus, 
Defenceless utterly, and in the power 
Of one who has the will to work your ruin ! — 

despard. 
Madam, attend ! My last proposal hear ! 
At hour of matins, and no other hour, 
Will I go with you to Duke D'Ormond's house. 
If he receives you, 1 surrender you 
To him, if not, you're mine. 

julia (aside J. 

If he receives me! 
What dreadful ambiguity is there, 
What ominous mystery of fearful import, 
Contain'd in these few words ! The time has been 
This were incredible ! What can I do? — 
I cannot yield to this. Perhaps 'twere best 
To ask this man to give me till to-morrow 



182 THE DUKE D'ORMOKD, 

His project to consider. — Thus shall I 
Gain time ; and something in my favour may 
Occur 'twixtnow and then. I shall but then 
Be forced to do his bidding, not worse off 
Than now I am. At all events, I ought 
To avoid provoking him to violence. 
I now am in his power. Utter refusal 
Would only be a signal for fresh insult. 

(To DespardJ. 
I have one favour, sir, to ask of you. 

DESPARD. 

Weil, what is it, my fair one ? — 

JULIA. 

Till to-morrow 
Give me to think of your proposal. I 
Beseech you, give me till its earliest dawn. 

despard (aside). 
Tfaith, her innocence as prolific seems 
In stratagems as guilt! To-morrow's dawn? — 
Passion forbids it ! It is hard ! — But still 
I may derive advantage to my schemes 
From one more consultation yet with Courtenaye, 
Or ere I fix them quite, except this siren, 
Like to spell-muttering necromancer, have 
Agents invisible to do her bidding. 
A thought has struck me. I'll make Colville's name, 



A TRAGEDY. 183 

Spite of his will, subservient to my projects, 
Courtenaye must be consulted. 

(To Julia J. 

I consent. — 
At sun-rise I receive to-morrow morn 
Your answer, but 

(Advancing to salute her) 

You owe to me, at least, 
Some courteous recompence for this forbearance. 
To Madame D'Orville now ! She must be well 
Tutor 1 d to watch this stipulating fair one. 

[Despard rings, and Julia is con- 
ducted into another apartment by 
Madame D'Orville, and a ser- 
vant with her.] 

despard (alone). 
Yes, I will go to Courtenaye. 'Twixt us both, 
We will contrive, as written by the Count, 
A letter to my prisoner, urging her, 
At hour of matins, to repair — with view 
Of meeting him there — to Duke D'Ormond's house. 
Surely by such a bait she will be caught. 

[Exit Despard. 

END OF ACT THE THIRD. 



184 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

FOURTH ACT. 

-**<>«■ — 

SCENE THE FIRST. 

An Apartment in the House of the Count. 
Count Colville and Le Charier. 

COUNT COLVILLE. 

THIS evening I was interrupted, ere 
The dire confession, which I hold myself 
Pledged to impart to you, could pass my lips. 
But let me hasten — since I am resolved 
That so it shall be — by a solemn use 
Of the present time, to frustrate any chance 
Of outward circumstance, in time to come, 
Of power to hinder that which I've decreed — « 
A dreadful secret — to impart to you ! — 
Your friend, — your Colville, — is a murderer! 

[A long pause. 

In youth I lov'd a lady, but of rank 
Not equal to my own, and portionless. 



A TRAGEDY. 185 

Knowing 'twould be in vain to try to win 

My father to consent ; rich though he was, 

Poor he esteemed himself, so long as there 

Was opportunity t' increase his wealth. 

The softening influence of connubial love, 

No more remained to him, no mediatrix 

Betwixt him, and his progeny, to draw 

Down on them, through the intercession fond 

Of a wife's love, paternal charities. 

Ere I was ten years old my mother died. 

Having impatiently a year endured 

That hope deferred which maketh the heart sick, 

I married privately. For twelve short months 

My bliss seemed perfect ; nor the less so seemed 

From the restraint engendered by concealment ; 

Rather it seemed this gave to my stolen hours 

Of wedded intercourse, augmented zest. 

For when that intercourse was interrupted 

By indispensable concerns, the joy 

Anticipation brought me, scarce seemed less 

Than that of actual possession. 

Such a deep interest did the fervour give 

Of my affection, that it seemed as life 

Was one perpetual dream of happiness. — 

At the expiration of a year, my wife 

Became a mother: though apparently 

The dangers of that season she surmounted ; 

Her health from that time failed ; a rapid wearing 

Attended with all symptoms of decay, — 



18(3 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

Daily and visibly more and more encroached 

Upon her strength. Though when a stream of joy 

Was gushing from our hearts, th' allotted stipend 

E'en of a bachelor, had well sufficed 

For all our needs: yet from these heavier claims 

On it, our child's birth, and my Lucy's sickness, 

From being, at first, spent in expectancy, 

We found it, in a little time, fall short 

To our debts due discharge. Th' anxiety 

I had, that, with all possible solaces 

For her distemper, Lucy should be furnished, 

Heavily taxed my means. — At last, to tell 

My father of my marriage, I resolved. 

He lived in the country : I in Paris. He 

Had all society renounced. This left 

No channel open by the means of which 

Report could reach him of my marriage ties. 

He was inexorable. Lucy dying, 

He banished me for ever from his house. 

Lucy grew worse and worse. I, from the day 

That made us man and wife, from Lucy hid 

My means ill suited to an exhibition 

Adapted to our rank. Love blessed us both. 

And little time, and less of inclination, 

Had we to think of aught but love and bliss. 

Still more tenaciously had I concealed, 

When first my wife's distemper shewed itself, 

The truth, in order in her weakened state, 

Better to reconcile her generous nature 



A TRAGEDY. 



187 



To meet indulgences. How could I now, 
Emaciate, and enfeebled, as she vvas, 
Risk such communication ? When not only- 
She had become much more unfit to bear it 
Than in the first stage of her malady, 
But also, when, from being involved more deeply, 
Of far more threatening, and appalling import, 
The story now must be ? — Can I proceed ? 
Driven by excess of anguish and despair, 
I joined a desperate band who met at night 
Not far from Paris : and the troublous times 
Favoured such freebooters' impunity. — ■ 
O'er this part of my narrative, let me 
Pass lightly ! Many deeds of violence 
I took a part in, and to many more 
Was witness, and much booty thence derived. 
One night, a band of cavaliers, as chance 
Would have it, through a forest passed, not far 
From our accustomed haunt: — we met, — dispersed 

them ! 
One fired at me. I fired again, and slew him, — i 
But, oh my God, — my friend, — what agonies 
Think you were mine; — when I beheld — his hair 
Stiffened with clotted blood, pale, cold, a corse ! — 
My father ! My companions had departed ; 
I never, from that moment, saw them more ! 
Next day were tidings brought me by a courier, 
Though without implication on myself, 
Both of my father's death, and of the means 



188 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

By which his life was forfeit. I too learned 
That, ere the dire catastrophe had chanced, 
He, though to no one he had this disclosed, 
Had in his heart relented towards his son, 
And dying left me, with the rank of count, 
His ample patrimony. Thus was 1, — 
The murderer of my father, by that father, — 
Endowed by means which negatived at once 
The blessing which such power had been to me, 
With means to gratify that which had been 
My heart's first wish since she who ruled it lan- 
guished, 
Th' ability not only to relieve, 
But to anticipate, far wider range, 
And a far more capricious catalogue, 
Of wants, than my poor dying wife could feel. — 
I, at the moment, had myself surrendered 
To the arm of justice ! But for Lucy's sake, 
And for my child's, to drag on a loath'd life, 
Did I submit. How could I wring her heart, 
For whom I would have died, with mental pangs, 
In the last conflict of her bodily weakness? — 
Yet when, with all the sweetness of an angel, 
The dying Lucy thanked me for procuring 
Palliatives to her from that very crime 
Which had a father robbed of life, oh think 
What must have been my shame and desolation ! 
Think of the dreadful contrariety, 
As to one point converged, 'twixt all that seems 



A TRAGEDY. 189 

Of heaven and bell ! How through it did I live ? — 

I know not ! Yet griefs are there so intense 

That, as there are no outward shews to match them, 

They, as respects the spectator, do bring 

Impediment against their own betrayal : — 

Purveyors of their own impunity. — 

The pangs which revelled, as it were, within me, 

As they all exhibition, so they passed 

All utterance by looks, and words, and gestures. 

I dared not of my father think ! — Lest I 

Should be detected, never did 1 feel 

Smallest anxiety! — and perhaps this — 

Though at the time I took no notice of it — 

Frustrated my detection. I had sold 

Myself to hell, from pliability 

Of temperament; and reckless of the future 

Myself I suffered now to be borne on 

By time and chance. She in my arms expired, 

My Lucy, blessing me for all my care. 

My child still lived : this the sole hindrance was 

That I did not, now, for the second time, 

Myself surrender to the arm of justice. 

Lest on his life I obloquy should bring, 

Mine I consented to drag on. My child, 

The precious being for whose sake alone 

I had endured a life of speechless woe, 

Was torn from me in two years afterwards 

By a rapid malady. Thus was I left — 

Thus am I still — poor in the midst of wealth : 



190 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

And with the means of mitigating wants, 
And woes of thousands, solitary, wretched. 
Endowed through influence of my patrimony, 
With power V excite respect and gratitude, 
And hope in others, yet myself unhoping, 
Alone, and in despair, unloveable, 
Unloving, and unloved ! If I have known 
For twenty years which have past since the last 
Of these calamities, one little hour, 
Abatement of my insuppressive pangs, 
I must attribute it to this, that heaven 
Has, in his mercy, not quite seered my heart : 
To this, — that, — though I have a crime committed 
Which never can be pardoned in this world, — 
The effect of this has rather been in me 
A deep humility, than, to confound 
By a sophistical philosophy, 
Or fatalism atheistical, 

Right and wrong deeds ; — by merging them in mo- 
tives — 
And extreme provocation, — to conceal 
Thus, from my consciousness the magnitude 
Of my delinquency ! — God's name be blessed ; — 
From whom the latter as the former comes, 
I, with the power, have had the will, to assist 
The broken-hearted, and the indigent ; 
And to contribute to alleviate 
The sufferings of those in every rank 
Who needed such an advocate. 



A TRAGEDY. 191 

LE CHARIER. 

Thus you 
Have found employment. Thus has your life been 
Supplied with something like an object. 

COUNT COLVILLE. 

Yes.— 
But long I've wished to quit my native land. 
Not only here too many objects wake 
Yearnings for — an impossibility ! — 
Me to become like other men ; but here, 
Do what I may, do they too potently 
Remind me of the past, to allow the hope 
I ever here can that composure gain, 
To be possessed of which, in some degree 
Is needful for me, would I dedicate 
Myself effectively to other's interests. 
To-morrow I at noon have an appointment 
With Julia Villeneuve : as you recollect 
Her coming here this evening broke the thread 
Of my sad story. I have seen enough 
Of her to feel assured she well deserves 
The Duke her cousin even as he was 
In better days ; and that it must be she — 
Hid as his brightness now is by a cloud — 
That will — if any one can — bring him back 
To the fair light of virtue and of peace. 
Till this end be achieved, I, for myself, 



192 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

No purpose have. In D'Ormond I behold 

Not only possibility of all 

That I, had I not fallen, might have been, — 

But also of much more. With this I see 

Like perilous propensity to fall : — 

And, were this so, as he surpasses me 

In a capacity for excellence, 

So would he — and I shudder to think of it — 

In that for crime, and consequent remorse. — 

I wish that you would go to his abode 

To-night, and learn if he have been there seen 

Of late. But do not let my name transpire. 

As, should he hear it, probably by change 

Of residence, to-morrow he would frustrate 

My resolution to converse with him. 

And if he be not there ; I pray you try 

To learn, where he may, with most likelihood 

Be found. I need not say discretion use 

In this research. Farewell, 



[Exit. 



LE CHARIER (alone). 

It pleases me 
That he has given me this embassy. 
It turns a train of thought too tragical ! — 
I do not know whether to marvel most 
At the deep nature of his crime ! or most 



A TRAGEDY. 193 



To pity the excess of his remorse ; 
Or most to reverence the sublimity 
Of his repentance and return to virtue. 



SCENE THE SECOND. 

An Apartment in the House of the Marchioness 
de Mielcour. 

Courtenaye (alone). 

(The apartment supposed to exhibit the 
appearance of preparations being 
made for a banquet for the Duke 
D'Ormond, Courtenaye, and the Mar- 
chioness. The Duke and the Mar- 
chioness are withdrawn. — A table 
covered, with lamps, Sfc. Sfc. Writing 
Implements before Courtenaye J. 

COURTENAYE. 

YES, yes ! I know that she'll consent to this. 
This very evening shall she give her hand 
To the Duke D'Ormond. But a meddling priest, 
As was my first intent, when first this scheme 
Rushed on my thoughts, must not be here admitted, 
'Tis difficult in an enterprize like this, 
So complex, in an instant to perceive 
o 



194 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

All its particular bearings. Thus the tie 

Would be legitimate ; and then, ah then, 

I, by a fatal inadvertency, 

Might, had he offspring, be, by this one act, 

Self-disinherited of D'Ormond's wealth. 

This must not be! How shall I manage ? Could 

Despard ? — Ah, let me see ? — ■ 

Would D'Ormond know him? 
De Mielcour never saw him ! As respects 
Her, all then is in safety. But — again 
Where can I find him ? For it must be done 
This very night, if done at all, since D'Ormond 
To-morrow morning, as we now have planned, 
Abides the ordeal of an interview 
With his late mistress. Despard two hours since 
From hence departed, with a view to guard 
His new found fair one. — Ah, had I then 
This scheme proposed to him. The lucky thought 
Then had not struck me, and besides I was 
Called by him from De Mielcour in such haste, 
I had not time to muster at my will 
My scattered project : yes, he will be here 
For that same letter which he bade me write, 
In Colville's name, to his fair fugitive. 
Ah ! this is lucky : thus all things conspire 
To consummate the scheme. But let me read 
This letter which I've written. 

[Walking backwards and forwards, 
and reading the letter, to be sent, 



A TRAGEDY. 195 

as from Count Colville, to Julia, 
by Despard.~\ 
Here comes D'Ormond. 

{Enter the Duke D'Ormond). 

COURTENAYE. 

I am glad the Marchioness has left us here. 
I wish to intercede for her. Conduct 
Yourself towards her with generosity. — 
Duke, your good fortune with this lady, has 
Made me quite splenetic. I have beheld 
De Mielcour like to please ere now: but she 
Was still the vicfress, and her lovers were 
Her slaves. Now is the scene quite changed. 

sighs, 
And looks, and sighs again : and by the hour 
Will she fantastically prate of you. — 
Trust me, that, for two hours this evening I 
Have, in being listener to her long encomiums 
On your sublime perfections, penance paid 
Which — from the test to which they put my pa- 
tience, — 
Would save me, were I convert to the faith, 
From fear, of purgatorial discipline. , 

DUKE D'ORMOND. 

Courtenaye, you jest. 

o 2 



196 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

COURTENAYE. 

I jest in earnest then ! — 
Take my word for it, you self-torturing sceptic, 
I jest on that which is no jest to me. — 
I own I've no aversion to a good 
Satyric, comic, and ironical 
Analysis of my dear absent friends. — 
I love to have them made ridiculous. 
Would to the world all men were banished it, 
Who cannot ridicule, or be ridiculous. 
But how do you think this humorous phiz of mine 
Could to a worshipful solemnity 
Compose itself, while, for two mortal hours, 
I was obliged to sit, and nod assent 
To a dull catalogue of charms and graces? — 

DUKE D'ORMOND. 

This is too much ! — I will not stay with you 
Another moment. — If you e'en had told me 
Of some sly scandal you and she had hatched, 
I could have listen'd with more patience. 

COURTENAYE (dSldeJ. 

Tut!— 
Of some sly scandal ? It shall e'en be so ! 
Til put his taste in bitters to the test. 

(To the Duke). 
You've hit the mark, Duke ! She did, I must own, 
Put in a little mixture of the acid. 



A TRAGEDY. 107 

DUKE D'ORMOND. 

She did ! Did she ? 

COURTENAYE. 

You men of sentiment, 
She said, yourselves conducted so by rule, 
And such magnificent hard phrases mouthed, 
You seemed more like those that the science learned, 
Than those that were about to seize a fortress. 



DUKE DORMOND. 



She said so ?— 



COURTENAYE. 

Yes, She said, — I mean not you, 
But men of sentiment, — you take me ? — made 
Love as a minuet is danced at court, — 
With wondrous grace, and measured gravity. 
And that you ne'er forgot the retenu, 
The imposing, and respectful ceremony, 
Fit for a royal presence : but she added 
Were we court gentlewomen in full dress, 
They could not seem more literally to think 
The farthingale, and tight laced stomacher, 
The ruff, the sack, the inflexible brocade 
Were integral constituents of our person. 

DUKE D'ORMOND. 

Call you this listening to my eulogy ? 
By Jove, rather than be so eulogized, 



198 THE DUKE d'ORMOND, 

I would she had exhausted utterly 
All the vituperative eloquence 
Of female malediction. 



COURTENAYE. 

Then your stores 
Of rich imaginative sentiment ! 
Your rapid eloquence ; your exquisite, 
And tremulous susceptibility! — 
Ovid himself would turn with envy pale, 
While you in metaphors luxuriate ; 
Or periods round, which close developements 
Of feelings, if not indescribable, 
Which by no other had been e'er described.— 
Desires immortal, occult sympathies; 
Congeniality of ravished souls ! 
Tender, and mystical presentiments, 
And all the mysteries of the human heart ! 

DUKE D'ORMOND. 

This is too much ! Perdition seize yourself, 
And her, myself, and all the universe ! — 
You've said enough to give to any man 
Such a self-loathing, as will cleave to him 
To all eternity ! Since good old times 
Of chivalry are past, and men have had 
Recourse to argument instead of arms, 
The spirit is evaporate, and lost, 
Which gives all relish to society. — 
" Just in proportion as the weapon, we 



A TRAGEDY, 190 

" Now use, the tongue, is of less absolute 
" Decision than the sword, so deeper wounds, 
" And bitterer pangs, and fiercer feller hate, 
" More acrimonious animosities, 
" Does it excite, than the good honest one, 
" Whose home-thrusts were a countercheck to ma- 
lice. 
" Men's hatred then, like the electric spark 
" Along a bar of steel, passed swiftly off 
u At the sword's point, and ended in the shock, 
'* And manly brunt, of noble chivalry.— 
" Now is the hatred deep of seeming friends ! 
u While mutual foes honoured in former times, 
" The mutual valour of each other's bearing ! 
u Then flourished all the courtesies of life; 
" Now hatred flourishes, and as it is 
" To the body hurtless, so the nobler part, 
" The soul, — it doth, — with most pestiferous hu- 
mours, 
" Which have no passage thence, — inoculate ! 
" Whence putrifying rottenness, and plagues, 
" Faithlessness, treachery, manoeuvring wiles, 
" Base machinations, and night-gendered intrigues, 
" Distemper'd noisomeness, and loathsome death 1 



By this abandonment, what have we gained 



* f More of the sway of reason ? No ! What lost ? — 
" All that fine tact which deems no wounds so deep 
" As those which gestures, looks, and words can 
give. 



200 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

" Saving our bodies, we have lost our souls ! 

" And bought our safety at the price of that, 

" Honour, — which gives alone to safety charms. 

" Life in itself is little worth ! Worth nought 

" When in compare with reputation placed ! — 

" Who is to take the measure of a question ? — • 

" Where arbitrators, umpires, shall we find 

" Impeccable, and incorrupt enough, 

" If 'tis to be by its intrinsic claim, 

" And metaphysick evidence decided, 

" 'Stead of that good old argument, the sword? — 

" The villain, or the fool, now gain the day 

" By ridicule, or bullying : or worse, — 

• c By that which brings more scandalous abuse 

" Than, from the droit du duel, ever sprung, 

* c Or e'er could spring, if it were practised more, 

" And prostituted more, than e'er it was 

" In any civilized community, 

" The art of intellectual * prize-fighting, 

" The age's talking gladiatorship !" 

The sword's test, if we grant it not the test 

Of that cause being righteous which unsheathed 

It from its scabbard, was, at least, the test 

That each who had recourse to it, could not be, 

While living, recreants from the point of honour. 

* It is true that these phTases are of more modern date than is the 
period assigned to this play ; but in the breaking out of the reformation 
we may suppose the evil to have existed: and though we profess to write 
of things past, we do not profess to express these things in an obsolete 
language. 



A TRAGEDY. 201 

As, where this sentiment reigns paramount 
Society can never worthless be, — 
As, where it reigns, no man could sit, and hear, 
Tamely, such argument for just offence 
As I have heard from you; — and finally, — 
Since, — though I see around me on all sides 
Defaulters from it — I hold this creed still ; — 
I therefore challenge you, by morrow's dawn, — 
The choice of place, of weapons, and attendants, 
Leaving to you — in mortal strife to meet me. 

courtenaye (aside J. 
This most triumphantly crowns all my wishes ! 
I will not take him at his word to-night. — 
But thus I'm furnished with a bint which gives 
Me power, whenever I've the will to do't, 
If I know not of any other means 
Myself to disencumber of him. This 
Gives me such power, since it has given me 
Knowledge, that I have nought to do to obtain it, 
But touch this point of honour's delicate edge 
And straight — he's moved — like puppet is he moved 
To my soliciting. — But I have now 
Galled him enough ! This sedative must be 
By double dose of stimulus countervailed, 
Or by myself my scheme will be defeated. — 
Should I accept this challenge, and he fall, 
I am an outlaw, thence comes banishment, 
And forfeiture of his inheritance. — 



202 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

No, let him have his fighting* mood indulged, 
But not till I've a proxy found, who may 
Be my cat's paw, while 1 the booty seize. 

DUKE D'ORMOND, 

(Who during this soliloquy had been walk- 
ing backwards and forwards at the 
farther end of the apartment). 
What ? Do you add contempt of my just claim, 
To your contemptuous speech ? Why answer not ? 

COURTENAYE, 

(Stretching out his hand). 
My friend, you but mistook me all this while.— 
Mere envy D'Ormond, take my word for it ; 
Mere jealousy and envy ! and as proof 
Of this, here is my hand ! The hand of one, 
A whimsical, but a warm-hearted friend ! — 
Mere jealousy ! Why you would have me more, 
Or less, than man ! I am so full of gall, 
Had I not let a little of it find 
A disemboguing at the tip o' my tongue, 
I swear that I had burst ! 

DUKE D'ORMOND. 

For once be serious.— 
Thou see'st that I am so ! Is't not enough, 
For thee to put to a perpetual jar 
My heart-strings in society ? We may — 



A TRAGEDY. 203 

Surely we may, when thus we are alone, 
Each other understand. 

COURTENAYE. 

] never was 
More serious in my life ! Nay, my excess 
Of levity, was only self-love's dalliance, 
So to hide superfluity of spleen. 
Somehow, somehow, it must have found a vent ! 
I ask your pardon ! From men blessed like you, 
Forgiveness must anticipate repentance. 
A man so fortunate that's not forgiving*, 
Would be a mere Thersites in ill luck. — 
Nay, if I would not stake my life to come; 
All future possible contingencies 
Of joys invisible and visible, 
To be thyself this blessed moment, brand 
Thy friend for the remainder of his days, 
As a poltroon and liar ! But what must 
We poor fools do, that are quite out of favour 
With time, place, person, opportunity? — 
" With time ! I am older than you by ten years! — 
" With place ! I am an alien from my country I 
** With person ! Are you not preferred o'er me 
,c By judgment of our mutual paramour? — 
u With opportunity ! I staked my all, 
u My little all to-night, and it is gone ! — 
" No ! we must either put a good face on it, 
u Or go hang, drown, poison, or shoot ourselves. 



204 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

" And 'faith, I think a merry vein ne'er stands 

" In such good stead, as when you are ith' mood, 

" To give yourself up, if you had it not, 

" To all the devils in Christendom." But now 

I'm "serious" as you call it. On my word, 

Duke, she is dying for you. I said always 

That you sly, sentimental cavaliers 

Achieved more amorous trophies in one hour 

Than we frank, merry-hearted, gallant fellows, 

"Whose souls sit quivering on our lips, can hope 

To win in any twelvemonth. I cannot 

In sober sadness talk about my heart, 

A serious business make of amorous dalliance, 

Or be impassion'd with an earnest look. 

But, curse it, you that are all over heart, 

Like animals in every part alive, 

When some new freak of fashion you're discussing, 

More eloquence can put in such a theme, 

Than such a thoughtless spark as I can do 

In catalogue raisonnee of all mankind's 

Enslavers, e'en from royal Bathsheba, 

Down to the present time. Why did not she,— 

The Marchioness, — tell me, that one glance of your's, 

One subtle smile, playing, and quivering round 

Your soul conveying lips, — nay one, — the least 

Important, and impassion'd of your gestures, — 

More meaning, in one moment, could convey, 

Than other men, with their best utterance, could, 

In whole course of their lives ? 



A TRAGEDY. 205 

DUKE D'ORMOND, 

(Affecting not to hear him). 

To-morrow night 
Will you go with me to the masquerade, 
At the Duke D'Ypres ? 

COURTENAYE. 

Yes : — no : — methinks, 
If I give no more heed to the diversion, 
Than you do to the question you are asking, 
And my reply to it, — when I am there, 
I, a female Pygmalion much shall need, 
To put a soul into my carcase. 

DUKE D'ORMOND. 

Come, 
Let us an end put to this foolery ! — 
I see that at cross-purposes we are. 
Therefore, au revoir. I will hence awhile.— 
My soul, though happy, still is sick with thought, 
I would go meditate, and try to bring 
This shapeless chaos of confused feeling 
Into some discipline that may be borne. 

[Exit. 

COURTENAYE (alone). 

That Despard now were here ! I have no doubt, 
Seeing how much he's caught by his fair prize, 



206 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

That he will with alacrity consent 

A project to promote which so much tends 

To throw his unprotected fugitive 

Entirely in his power. 'Tis nigh the hour 

That he appointed to receive from me 

This letter. Though time presses, till I've seen 

Despard, I will not drop most distant hint 

To D'Ormond of this marriage. He besides 

Is so irresolute, and seems to shrink 

So much from any step that stamps a deed 

With an irrevocable character, 

'Twere better that the ceremony trod 

Close on the heels of its proposal to him. — 

De Mielcour will be with him here ere long ; 

I'll leave them then together; and meanwhile 

Will Despard see. Then will I pounce on him, 

When his souPs melted by excess of love ; 

And if in this mood I should cope with him, 

And all be ready for the marriage rite, 

Surely he will not feel so churlishly 

As not to thank me that I thus have catered, 

At least as it shall seem to him, to take 

All scandal from his coming happiness. 

I'll school De Mielcour to say nought of this 

To D'Ormond : and besides a woman's pride 

Would rather that the project be proposed 

By any lips than her's. But should they ever 

Discover this my treachery ? Then, methinks, 

Will they not make the tie legitimate ? — 



A TRAGEDY. 207 

Ah, long ere this, — for projects like to mine, 
Or soon succeed, or have an early death,— 
He shall be soul and body mine, if still, 
Which much I doubt whether he will, he breathe 
The vital air! 

How luckily, in the very nick 
Of time, here comes the Marchioness. 

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR. 

Is not the Duke here? Courtenaye, where is he? 
My porter tells me that he just has passed 
The outer court. Whither at such an hour ? — 

COURTENAYE. 

He told me that he went to meditate. 

(Aside). 
Ah ! this is as it should be ! 'Twill be well 
To ply her with this marriage, while her heart, 
Like a young girl's fond of a truant bird, 
Feels doubtful whether her precarious, 
Volatile favourite be safely caged. 

(To the Marchioness). 
So Marchioness, while you devote yourself, 
A willing victim, to a woman's fondness, 
Have I been pondering on the likeliest means, 
To render this your love, — for sure I am, 
Though you confess it not to me, that love 
For D'Ormond in your heart has subtly crept, — • 
To render this your love a source to you 



208 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

Of lasting happiness : though I, alas ! 
Thus throw away all hope of earthly joy. 

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR. 

Explain yourself. What is this riddle? say. — 

COURTENAYE. 

Love you not D'Ormond ? 

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR (aside)* 

What shall I say ? To him 
If I speak truth, so little he believes 
That it is ever spoken, and so seldom 
Speaks he the truth himself, — never perhaps 
Except to serve in purposes of fraud, — 
That he'll not credit me. — 

(To Courtenaye)* 
Why ask you this ? — 

COURTENAYE. 

Because I wish to serve you. 

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR. 

Me ! To serve ? — 
I thought in this scheme I was to serve you. 

COURTENAYE. 

Now hear me. If, as I have shrewdly guessed, 
D'Ormond has gained an interest in your heart, 
Why, — why not marry him ? — 



A TRAGEDY. 209 

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR. 

Are you sincere ? 

COURTENAYE. 

As far as I would be your friend, 1 am. — 
As far as I would be my own, I am not. 
This tie which I magnanimously proffer, 
From my care for your honour, is to me, 
And to my comfort, fatal. But methinks, 
'Tis for your interest, and I lay aside, 
When that I contemplate, all selfish thoughts 
Of my own happiness. 

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR. 

But why this marriage ? 

COURTENAYE. 

Nothing will fix Duke D'Ormond but a tie 
From which he can't escape. It wearies me 
To see him in irresolution waste 
His noble powers. You might do much with him. 

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR. 

'Twas but this day, this very day, you asked 
My aid, to make him to yourself subservient. 
" A little of his wealth would do me service:" 
Said you not this ? What has thus changed you ? 
p 



210 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

COURTENAYE. 

He, 

Himself. I have been talking with him now! 

And find him so devoutly fond of you, 

No more can I resist, when I behold 

How serious, and how absolute his love 

For you, to serve him, and yourself: and sure 

I am, no service in the world of mine, 

Can equal that which I am rendering him 

In pleading with you to become his wife. 

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR. 

Should I consent, would D'Ormond ? — 

COURTENAYE. 

Would he ? Aye ! — 
Would he consent to be in Paradise? — 
Would he consent, having a foretaste had 
Of joys of heaven, lasting to render them ? 

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR. 

Have you no drift in this beyond the sphere 
Of my perceptions ? 

COURTENAYE. 

Hear me, on my knees, 
My eyes suffused with tears; (my beating heart- 
See how it throbs — with such a fever maddens 



A TRAGEDY. 211. 

Of contradictory and ardent wishes 
Betwixt the mighty sacrifice I make, 
And the disinterested ecstasy 
With which he has inspired me, that I can 
Scarcely my thoughts articulate) : hear me then, — ■ 
If nature can bear the tremendous conflict, 
And spare me utterance, from the unutterable 
Emotions that are mine, confess to you 
The process of this change. Love has done all, 
Almighty love ! I have conversed with D'Ormond ; 
And, as I live, he so has melted me 
By his description of his love for you, 
That I start up from 'neath his influence, 
A man regenerate. His ardent passion, 
And the warm phrases in the which he's clothed it, 
Have wrought on all my nature to a change. 
I do abhor myself in dust and ashes, 
For all my past degeneracy. So poor, 
So mean, so abject, worldly projects seem, 
Such is the indigence in which they starve 
Who on them batten, or to me so seems it, 
Since I have quaffed, though from another's cup, 
Of the rich beverage of delicious passion, 
That I'm on fire to prove that I'm not quite 
Unworthy to be loved, by serving one 
From whom I first have heard, warm from the lips, 
From whom I first have seen, bright from the eyes, 
On the cheeks mantling, moulding every gesture 
To an inimitable suasive grace, 
p2 



212 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

From whom I've caught first, living from the heart, 

Love's language, spirit, and beatitude. 

Since I cannot be your's, for I am now 

A man of fortunes wrecked, and 'twould be cruel, 

E'en were you willing, as I am not vain 

Enough to think you are, to ask of you 

To join your fate to mine: since I must now 

Your love forswear, and yet am all on fire 

With love's vast power, seeing its force in him, 

Since I, in short, cannot his votary be, 

I am resolved his victim to become. — 

You must have D'Ormond. I have found a priest, 

Who, this night, will unite you. 

No, — no scruples. 

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR (aside). 

Can this be true ? If love can work such change, 

Seen in another, in his selfish heart, 

What must its triumph be, when, like a gem 

Of rarest value, in a casket rich 

As that of D'Ormond's bosom, 'tis enshrined ? — 

[The Servant of Courtenaye enters and 
announces DespardJ] 

courtenaye ( aside ). 
She must not see him. 

(To the Servant). 

Bid him wait. 



A TRAGEDY. 213 

(To the Marchioness) . 

This man 
Comes with a message from a reverend friar 
For whom I've sent a quest.- — 

[A Servant of the Marchioness enters and 
announces the return of the Duke 
D y Or mono 1 *] 

COURTENAYE. 

The Duke's returned, 
Please you dear Madam leave us here awhile, 
This emissary of the friar and me. 

(A side J. 
The Duke's return now is most opportune, 
But he must not see Despard. 

[Court enaye here whispers to the Servant 
to bring Despard to the apartment 
where he now is, after the Mar- 
chioness has left it, by a different 
passage from the one through which 
the Duke had passed. The Mar- 
chioness desires the same servant, 
when Court enaye has finished speak- 
ing to him, to shew the Duke into 
the Salle de Compagnie, with the 
assurance that she will join him im~ 
mediately]. 



214 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

courtenaye (to the Marchioness). 
But first tell me, 
Will you, if here the priest come, give consent 
To join your hand with D'Ormond? 

He, I know, 
Wishes this consummation fervently. 
He begged of me to break it thus to you. 
But he'll not mention it himself, till I 
Have told him, whether, as ambassador 
For him, in this affair, I've prosperous been. 
Time presses — Answer me, I pray you. When 
I, with this man have spoken, I'll toIVOrmond 
With your reply. How do I pity him 
E'en for this brief suspense ! — 

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR. 

Till you see D'Ormond 
This subject shall not pass my lips, 

COURTENAYE. 

And he, 
I know has not the heart to speak to you, 
Till he from me receive your answer. 

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR. 

Well.— 

Perhaps this suit if made by D'Ormond's lips 
Might gain from me a favourable hearing. 

[Exit. 



A TRAGEDY. 215 

(Enter Despard). 

DESPARD, 

Here have I sought you, Courtenaye, that you may 
Play off the scheme which we betwixt ourselves 
Have with such pains matured. But what have you 
Been doing at De Mielcour's this last hour? 

COURTENAYE. 

I've laid a train: and now* I only want 

Fit instrument to touch and play it off, 

And then the whole is gained. But let us first 

Read o'er this letter which I've penned for you. 

DESPARD. 

Shew me the letter. You say that you can 
Perfectly imitate Count Colville's writing? 

COURTENAYE. 

Perfectly. I so many times have seen 

Letters addressed by him to D'Ormond. Here, — 

You see 1 have already penned it.— 

[Giving a letter to Despard, ivho reads. 

despard (reading). 
" Madam." 

COURTENAYE. 

I 

Was forced in this way to begin ; for I 
Know not the lady's name. 



216 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

DESPARD. 

How then 
Have you addressed the letter ? 

COURTENAYE. 

Not at all.— 
But thank my wit for finding out a cause, 
And one of likeliest seeming, to assign 
For that omission. Here, — i'th' postscript. Read 
it. 

despard (reading the postscript). 
" I have sent this letter without a superscription, 
as I thought it best that your name should not be 
known to the people of the house in which you are, 
thus will your honour the better be guarded. I have 
given such orders for its delivery as cannot fail to en- 
sure it." 

COURTENAYE, 

Now read the letter. 

despard (reading), 
" I have discovered the place to which you have 
been carried. I called at your hotel an hour after 
you had quitted me, in order to pass a part of the 
evening with you ; and to my great consternation 
found that you were not returned thither : having 
some knowledge that a party of gentlemen, of whom 
the Duke D'Ormond forms one, frequents that house, 



A TRAGEDY. 217 

I enquired whether he or any of his comrades had 
been there about the time that you were ; I found that 
they had ; and that one of them disappeared just at 
the time that you got into the chariot which brought 
you to my house ; I know his name, and will tell it 
you when we meet." 

courted aye (to DespardJ. 
You see that I have kept your secret there. 

despard (reading). 
" I went to his house ; and discovered through one 
of his servants, that you are there, but could not gain 
admission to you ; I further discovered through the 
same servant, that it is his wish that you should meet 
the Duke D'Ormond to-morrow at the hour of matins. 
Comply with this wish, by all means. Depend on my 
meeting you also, and trust that all yet will end 
well." 

" Colville." 

DESPARD. 

Excellent ! Now to hinder all surmise, 
Seal this : and be it given to the lady 
As though a special messenger from Colville 
Had brought it to her. So will I affect 
Ignorance of such transaction. But do you 
Think she will have credulity enough 
To trust to this? — 



218 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

COURTENAYE. 

Oh, never doubt of that! 
She has been yet used to a country life, 
Where every one to every one is known, 
And every incident : and thus, to her 
This will appear a chance of every day, 

DESPARD. 

I only hope the Duke will not insist 
Upon a second interview. 

COURTENAYE. 

Leave that 
To me. I'll take good care to make the first 
Too tragical, for him to wish to have, 
Or perhaps for him e'en to live to see, 
A second. 

[Courtenaye folds and seals the letter. 
Then gives it to a servant of his, 
tv ho is in waiting, telling him to 
take it to the house of Despard, and 
to desire that it may be presented to 
a lady there, and that she may be 
told that a ?nessenger brought it to 
the door, who waits for an answer, 
which he requires may be delivered 
to him.~\ 



A TRAGEDY. 219 

DESPARD. 

You will meet me at the hour 
Of matins, at the Marchioness de Mielcour's? 

COURTENAYE^ 

Precisely at that hour. Wait here till you 

Receive the lady's answer. Meanwhile listen.— 

Despard, I have to name a project to you. 

Will you assist me ? I this evening wish 

To make De Mielcour D'Ormond's seeming bride. 

But this must not by a legitimate tie 

Be now accomplished. Heirs might then arise. 

And I, to 'scape one evil, thus might rush 

Into another far more terrible ! — 

For I have reasons of my own for wishing 

Him to be childless ; at least, as respects 

Lawful inheritors of his vast wealth. — 

Will you the priest's part play ? Could you succeed 

To modulate your voice, and drawlingly 

To mouth out, with monotonous nasal twang, 

The formal homily, your cowl and gown, — 

Especially as all this plot will be 

Transacted by the mimic light of tapers, — 

Sufficiently your person would disguise, 

DESPARD. 

Trust me for this. I have e'en for the nonce 
A cowl and gown, in which some weeks ago 
Accoutred, I made shift to shrive a fair, 



220 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

And willing- votary : in the solemn whine, 
And formal antics of hypocrisy, 
I am, believe me, though His I that say it, 
A most consummate adept. 



COURTENAYF, 

This I knew 
Ere thus I spake to you ; and this my knowledge 
Emboldened me to speak thus. I erewhile 
Worked on De Mielcour so persuasively, 
Yet with such shew of seeming sacrifice 
Of my dear love for her ; I have so feigned 
That tender interest for her honour has, 
Spite of my own despair, urged me to this, 
That she at last has yielded. Further too 
I have persuaded her that thus the ^secret 
May, of our own love, by this seeming 1 tie 
Be better guarded : though methought at this, 
A faint, yet bitter and incredulous smile, 
Played on her beauteous lips. But to the Duke 
Nothing* of this will she say. From my lips, — 
And at the critical moment, when most warm 
He from her converse comes: (for there's the rub, — 
Lest he should recreant prove) then to his ear 
Will I this hint impart. Meanwhile, it is 
Resolved by me that she shall still impute, 

* The reader is not to suppose tLat Courtenaye really said this to the 
Marchioness, but to ascribe the assumption of this pretension on her to 
his own vanity. 



A TRAGEDY, 221 

That same decision to the which I'll goad him, 
To his intense idolatry for her. 

DESPARD. 

All shall be done as you desire. — 

COURTENAYE. 

I would 
Converse awhile with D'Ormond. Meanwhile you 
Yourself disguise. Procure a missal. Come. 
In the first place I'll leave the pair together. — 
Get you the ring. — Hither return : — and when 
I know that all things are in readiness, 
And not till then, I will by one bold stroke, — 
E'en as 'tis said, that, by some serpent's eye, 
The victim, which, by instinct taught, it seeks, 
Is fascinated, — by its abrupt ostent, 
And subtle choice of opportunity, 
Throw, ere he be aware, around his feet, 
Though seeming now a wreath of blooming myrtle, 
Frail, and most easy to unravel, yet 
Inextricably, a still galling chain. 

DESPARD. 

I see your scheme : and am at your command. 

[The Servant of Courtenaye enters with 
a note directed to Count Colville. 



222 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

While Courtenaye is opening it, 
Despard thus speaks aside] 
I am the more ready to concur in this, 
Since, all on fire as I am to possess 
My beauteous prisoner, it so much augments 
The chances, that she now will wholly be 
On my protection thrown. 

courtenaye (reading the letter). 
" To the Count Colville." 

" Sir — I will be guided by your direction : thank- 
ful am I that you have discovered the place to which 
I am so unhandsomely brought: but I will not com- 
plain, as now I have a prospect of such speedy re- 
lease. 

" I have not signed my name, lest this note should 
fall into the hands of those who might have additional 
reason to betray me if they knew who I was." 

DESPARD. 

What can she mean by this r She must, methinks, 
With all this circumspection, be of rank. 
Spite of her sweet simplicity, the girl's 
Not without cunning, and prompt artifice. 

COURTENAYE. 

What woman ever was? I here had hoped, — 
Though I said nothing, — and, to tell the truth, 



A TRAGEDY. 223 

This was one motive dictating the letter, — 
To wind her name out. — 

DESPARD. 

We in time shall know it. 

COURTENAYE. 

All is as it should be. — Be here again 

Ere the night close. When you are come, send 

word 
Through my own page, who is in waiting here. — 
Dumb am I, and invisible to both 
De Mielcour, and the Duke, till you return : 
That he may not have opportunity 
To be irresolute, I will not seek 
Admission to him, till, by your return, 
You give the signal. — Now, — dispatch ; — away ! 

DESPARD. 

To-night we're fortunate ; — -we men of intrigue : 
Like Csesar we may say, we came, we saw, 
We conquered : for behold in few brief hours, 
By us two plots are hatched, arranged, matured ! 

[As they are separating, Despard returns 
and recalls Courtenaye,who is just 
passing the threshold on the oppo- 
site side of the apartment J] 



224 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

DESPARD. 

But, Courtenaye, should this plot of our's be known ? 
The Duke is powerful : 'twill be no slight rub. — 

COURTENAYE. 

The times are troublous, and impunity 

Attends far heavier crimes : but I am full, 

Brim full of projects ; and I scarce can doubt 

That, ere reflection to Duke D'Orrnond come, 

I shall have so unravelled his life's web, 

That I again may wind it at my will, 

Or draw it out to its extremity. 

E'en as the child's breath, or the playful winds, 

Dally capriciously with thistles' beard, 

The seeded dandelion, or a tuft 

Of flax with filaments scarce visible, 

Or as least gust doth quench a dying flame, 

Will I annihilate its last least remnants. 

Risk we this chance. Greatly would we obtain, 

We greatly too must hazard. Can we be 

Worse off than we are now ? Here is a chance 

May better us ; for if I win, as sure 

I hope to win some of his ample stores, 

You shall be also sharer in the spoil. — 

DESPARD. 

Farewell ! On this condition I am your's. 

[Exit. 



A TRAGEDY. 225 

courtenaye (alone). 
Poor, easy fool ! These semi-men, — these men 
Part knave, part coward, coward the better half,— 
Hold but their lives in fee, as ready tools 
To cater with their souls emasculate 
For spirits who can sway them, and they ought 
To think themselves by such a sufferance honoured. 

[Exit. 



SCENE THE THIRD. 

A Salle de Compagnie in the Hotel of the Mar- 
chioness de Mielcour. 

The Duke D'Ormond and the Marchioness de 

MlELCOUR. 
MARCHIONESS DE MlELCOUR. 

SO you return at length ! Cruel to me 
Was the last hour's suspense, 

duke d'ormond, (aside). 
How beautiful 
She is ! Oh, may I only find her mind 
As loyely as her form, then am I blessed ! 
Q 



226 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR. 

Or I, in my opinion, am deceived, 

Or I may feel assured to acquire in you, — 

What is to me a novelty in life, — 

In you may hope to find a friend ! 

DUKE D'ORMOND. 

A friend ? 
Nay more ! — A lover ! — An adorer ! I 
Am your's ! and you may mould me to your will, 

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR, 

(Making room for the Duke on a sofaj. 
Let us be seated. Sit down here. — I have 
Much now to say to you ! 

DUKE D'ORMOND. 

Oh ! that I could 
Forget that there were in the world, save you 
And me, a creature else. I would, to-night 
With dreams of everlasting happiness 
Fain flattered be ! For I should cease to live 
W 7 ith one more shock, one severing of the heart. 

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR. 

Duke, I suspect, were your wish gratified, 
That soon, with such exclusive intercourse, 
You would be palled. 



A TRAGEDY. 227 

DUKE D'ORMOND. 

You, Marchioness, 
Yet know me not ! The burthen of existence 
Is a fatigue to me. I could endure 
To live with poverty, with obloquy, 
With sickness;— but bereft of sympathy 
I cannot drag on life ! A second self 
I want ! The eternal craving of the heart, 
Which many have described, and few have felt, 
An inextinguishable passion is 
In me. Maria, love me. — Tell me that 
I make you happy. In the quivering glance 
Of your frank eye, one moment suffer me 
To recognize the maddening fire that burns 
Within the very centre of my soul, 
And D'Ormond thinks himself supremely blessed, 
I am no man of gallantry. I am 
Of female conquests no monopolist. 
But who would condescend to owe to me 
Her happiness, she, she will find there lives 
A vernal season of ne'er-failing love 
'Neath my unprepossessing gravity. — 
And that the more she condescends to trust 
To its perennial freshness, more and more 
'Twill be exuberant e'en to th' utmost verge 
To which in it she may place confidence. 
My cold demeanour more is the result 
Of a superfluous fervour, which congeals, 
And stagnates, — forming thus an icy crust 
Q 2 



228 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

Over my heart, from never meeting with 

Fitting excitement for its exercise, — 

Than from a scant defectiveness of nature. 

Though in the midst of worldly happiness, 

I am half heart broken ! One more shock, 

One more disruption of my sympathies, 

And that illusion utterly is gone, 

Failing in which, our most voluptuous passions, 

Behold, from those things which should call them 

forth, 
All their bloom fled : their beauty, freshness gone, 
And nothing seem they but the lifeless forms, 
Appalling skeletons, of what they were. 

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR. 

I can but half conceive your meaning ! While 
You thus address me, you impress me more 
With the conviction that you have sustained 
Wrongs, real or fancied, from some absent object, 
Rather than that a pleasure you receive 
From any present one. Confess, at least, 
There is in this your style of making love 
Originality ; and besides this, 
At least, no flattery. 

DUKE D'ORMOND. 

The happy flatter, 
And only they ! And they alone are happy 
Who are themselves by things or persons flattered. 



A TRAGEDY. 229 

For there are flatteries in things as well 

As individuals. The best that I 

Can offer, is by my loquaciousness, 

And egotism, to afford you proof 

Of perfect confidence : and who confides 

E'en grief, — while he confides, his grief is lost. 

Grief that can be confiding is not grief ! 

The real grief is voiceless, and as with it 

Dies all that vanity which loves to dwell 

On themes of self; so also, with the hope. 

Dies all the power, of waking sympathy. 

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR. 

You're the first lover, I e'er heard of, Duke, 
Who chose a metaphysical tirade 
T'amuse a lady's private audience. 
This seems to me an ominous beginning: 
And what imports it to the present hour. 

DUKE D'ORMOND. 

Not much indeed ! But to retort, I may 

Say, you're the first, I ever met with, lady, 

To whom a metaphysical tirade 

Would not appear misplaced : I cannot tell 

Whether or not confession like to this 

Will flatter you. But is it not to say 

In higher sense, converse with one is sweet, 

Proving that in society with her 

The deepest workings of a lonely mind 



230 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

Feel a spontaneous soliciting 

To unused utterance, than 'twould be to seek 

To amuse her ears with vapid flatteries 

Of beauty and of grace, whose very speech, 

While they her person adulate, imply 

Misprision of her soul ? 

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR. 

Well : — very well I 
I see you men must flatter our frail sex, 
And perhaps then the most insidiously, 
When you the most ingeniously disdain 
All flattery. 

DUKE D'ORMOND. 

I love you lady ! Love you to distraction ! — 

But certain questionings will vex my heart 

Of th* influence which Courtenaye has o'er you. 

And then my withered, and checked impulses, 

Run into wild discourse. For happiness — 

With me it is so — is a quiet thing! — 

But these my words are shapings of a soul 

Which dallies with its woe ; and throws it off 

In phrases strange and wild; like flowers unplucked 

Will, ere they quite die, to the fresh breeze give 

Their sere leaves, and uncultivated blooms. 

I cannot love you as bequest of Courtenaye. 

I am exacting. If I a in to love 

Intensely, I must be intensely loved : 



A TRAGEDY. 231 

And not intensely loved, intensely love, 

I care not to be loved, or love, at all ! 

The art has Courtenaye of inflicting pain, 

Yet his foil aiming* with such subtle skill 

That all its strokes are, e'en when most they wound, 

Unrecognizable, invisible, 

And unrecordable ! 

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR f aside). 

With such a view 
Of Courtenaye's character, and 'tis methinks, 
Not a mistaken one, what semblance is there 
That he should chusehim as ambassador, 
To woo me as his bride ? 

DUKE D'ORMOND. 

Could I suppose, 
E'en for an instant, that you were in league 
With Courtenaye, I enough should not esteem 
Our separation, though we severed were 
Far as from pole to pole. 

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR (aside). 

Unlikelier still 
That he should Courtenaye chuse as emissary. 
Perhaps 'tis jealousy. Love never was 
Where jealousy was not. 



232 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

DUKE D'ORMOND. 

But such a thought 
I will not entertain ! You could not give me 
A smile Maria — such a smile as that — 
If I were warranted in such suspicion. 
I will not think it ! I will think you love me!— 
And though I have not sacrificed one life — 
Though I could wish to sacrifice a thousand 
For you — I will believe that you are mine 
As much as though the point that made you so, 
Of honour, had been tried in th' only way, 
'Twixt Courtenaye and myself, in which such ques- 
tions — 
At least in my opinion, — can be 
Decided satisfactorily. 

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR (aside). 

Strange ! 
This is very strange ! The test will be 
If Courtenaye have or have not falsely played, 
When he and D'Ormond once have met. Till then 
I will be silent. I have given my word 
For this, and will not break it. This may be 
To prove the temper of my soul towards him 
Ere he my hand demand. He cannot know 
That Courtenaye yet has urged me on this point : 
If I believed he did^ and thought he played 



A TRAGEDY. 233 

A simulated part, my woman's pride 
Ne'er could such insult pardon. — 
(To the Duke). 

D'Ormond, you 
Are a strange creature ! — You appoint a meeting 
With a fair lady ; first you read to her 
A long, emphatic, speculative thesis, 
Stuffed full of metaphysic terms, and now 
The droit du duel is the theme you chuse ! 
" Was ever woman in this humour wooed ? — 
" Was ever woman in this humour won? — " 
At least this is original in the art 
Of making love. Such recipe gives Ovid 
To his disciples. — It appears to me 
As if your self-tormenting soul's perverseness 
Could only be allayed, or gain possession 
Of me on terms accordant to your taste, 
Could you have rescued me, as valorous knights 
Are said to have done, in tales of chivalry, 
Fair damsel, in enchanted fortress bound ? 
Had you won me by proof of hardihood, 
By dint of sword, by levelling with the ground 
Castle or barbacan ; by scaling walls, 
Binding discourteous paynim ravisher, 
Dishorsing mailed soldan with your lance, 
And by encountering all the prodigies, 
" Hair- breadth escapes in the imminent deadly 
breach/' 



234 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

Adventures, hardships, and strange accidents, 
We read of in romantic rhapsodies. — 
Thus, ere you bind the myrtle round your brow, 
Acquiring laurels in the field of Mars. 

DUKE D'ORMOND- 

This in one sense is true. ] might compare 

Myself to Sampson i'tk 5 Philistine's gripe. — 

Unspeakable, immitigable, is 

The unreconciled disgust of my whole being 

At the manoeuvring, crooked policy, 

The machiavelian stratagems of Courtenaye. 

Yet to distraction 1 love you i and I 

Should hold myself the happiest of men 

Had not he been the means of making me 

Acquainted with you; — but by doing that — 

Which, when I contemplate your wondrous charms, 

I scarcely can, without supposing him 

Or more or less than man, think that he did 

Without some private reservation — 

The very greatness of the benefit, 

The spirit of self-sacrifice it asks, 

So little seem they of his temperament 

Spontaneous growths, their very glory feeds 

The whirl and tempest of suspicious thought. 

I know he's lax in principle ; how then 

When that which might that of the stoutest shake, 

Is placed within his reach, can 1 believe 



A TRAGEDY. 235 

That he, with generosity unheard of, 
With an unparalleled devotedness 
To me, can that surrender ? — 

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR. 

Think you then 
That I am fallen so low, so very low, 
That like transferrable property, I am 
A mere commodity at other's will ? 

DUKE D'ORMOND. 

Forgive me, madam, if, e'en for an instant, 

My words could such interpretation bear. 

I speak of him 9 not you! — Such dark surmise — 

Though most ingenious in self-torturing 

I be, — ne'er yet presumed to glance at you : 

You live in brightness unapproachable 

By brooding and distempered jealousies; 

And inasmuch as of their spurious birth 

That brightness may be parent, just so much 

They fall off from you in their consequences, 

As vapours which the sun draws from the earth, 

Fall to that earth again condensed in showers, 

Nor dare, except to eyes which are beneath them, 

To cast a moment's shade upon its glory. 

You are that sun, these fogs and mists of passion, 

Which you have raised in me, attaint you not, 

They but accite to their tribunal dim, 



236 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

The prejudiced, the earthy qualities 
Of your idolaters. 



MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR. 

Ingeniously, 
Yes, most ingeniously have you, Duke, found 
A clue by which to extricate yourself 
From your perplexity. I never knew 
Before — but I suppose 'tis love that gives it — 
That you with such address were gifted. 

DUKE D'ORMOND. 

Hear me.— 
When contemplating you my thoughts appear 
Suspicions rather than realities, 
Which, to the soul sick with excess of bliss, 
And insufficient to endure its transports, 
Suggest that its powers are not infinite ; 
And that there must be somewhat to remind 
Us of the imperfection of our nature 
E'en in the very ecstasy of joy. — 
In short, Maria, when I look on you, 
These fancies seem the questionings alone 
To the soul incident, when ushered first 
To bliss, beneath the which its nature totters, 
From having to its deep intensity 
Been unaccustomed. May they not be likened, 
As to recriminations, and revenges, 



A TRAGEDY. 237 

Of our mortality and finiteness, 

When our immortal energies assert 

Their right to grasp at, having found means of, 

Immortal happiness. 

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR (aside). 

Oh, how I am 
Unworthy to awaken the affections 
Of a nature like to this. The time hasbeen — 
But, ah, that time is past redemption gone. 

(To the Duke J. 
If by self-questioning you are perplexed, 
What must I be ? We — both of us — 
But you in far less measure than myself — 
Have somewhat to remind us we are mortal, 
And thence imperfect. Yet may not the thought 
That each the other's feeling comprehends, 
Each sympathizes with the imperfections 
And all the sufferings thence entailed on each ; — 
Participation of imperfectness 
If unaccompanied by vanity — 
To a nearer union lead, than when two minds 
Proudly aloof each from the other stand 
Like fortresses impregnable, both wrapped 
In self-complacency ? Especially 
May not this be the case, where suffering 
Is, on the part of the beloved one, 
Not in proportion to delinquency, 
But rather wholly is the bitter fruit 



238 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

Of an excessive sensibility, 

Which gives, in such a case, a power to wound 

To that delinquency, which, in no other, 

Without that tremulous sensibility 

It could possess. 

DUKE D'ORMOND. 

Oh, Marchioness, you are 
My better angel! In this cordial grasp 
May all my splenetic, repining thoughts, 
For ever be forgotten. 

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR. 

How can I 
Better to-night withdraw myself from you 
Than by a fervent joining in this wish. 

[Exit Marchioness. 

[Enter Courtenaye, unseen by the Duke, 
by the door opposite to the one by 
ivhich the Marchioness has with- 
drawn, and who is supposed to have 
been waiting for her departure]* 

courtenaye Caside). 
Now will I take him in the melting mood ; 
Nor will I gradually, but with abrupt 
Promptness, will hurry him, ere he have time 



A TRAGEDY. 239 

For thought, into this snare I've laid for him. 

(To the Duke). 
I've a proposal now to make to you. — 
The Marchioness de Mielcour and yourself 
Will ne'er be happy till you both are joined 
In ties indissoluble; you and she, — 
The noble-minded Mielcour ! I am so 
Convinced of this, and further so convinced 
That by affording- you facilities 
For this close union, I best proved to you 
My faithful love, further was so convinced 
That you, with your procrastinating spirit, — 
With your — what shall I call it ? — dalliance with 
Absolute purposes, arising from 
A melancholy mood of mind, from griefs, 
Which, though to me you never have divulged them, 
I, not the less, am sure prey on your heart: — 
And of their nature too I've a shrewd guess. — 

DUKE D'ORMOND. 

Come ! To the point. Why all these ambages ? — 

A plain tale ever may be plainly told, — 

You touch a tender part! What is your drift ?— 

COURTENAYF. 

This then, — that, for the reasons I've expressed, 
And others not expressed, — and, hark ye, with 
The Marchioness' consent, — she knows it all ;— 
I have a priest procured, who waits hard by, 



240 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

E'en in the anti-chamber, to perform, 

Betwixt De Mielcour and yourself, the rite 

Of holy matrimony ! But hark ! she thinks, 

That this request originates in you. — 

I ventured on this stratagem to save 

A woman's blushes. Therefore, pray you, see 

Not to betray the innocent artifice 

To which I was led by deep interest in 

The welfare of you both. — 

[The Duke walks backwards and forwards 
as in deep thought. While he does 
this 9 Court enaye thus soliloquizes.'] 

'Tis true the Marchioness knows this : — and let 

Him think that it with her originates. 

I brought the priest, and still the will in me 

To her consent was father. What of this ? — 

If he suppose it had from her its birth 

'Twill bind him faster to consummate it. 

He cannot be so recreant a gallant 

As when a lady (as he thinks she's done) 

Provides him with an instrument on purpose 

To join her hands with his, as to refuse 

To accomplish that, which she, with complaisance 

So flattering to his vanity, has planned. 

duke d'ormond (returning J. 
It shall be as you wish. Call the priest in. 



A TRAGEDY. 241 

COURTENAYE. 

He's now conferring with the Marchioness. 

f A side J. 
The blow must now be struck, or all is lost. 
No time for conference shall they have. For, D'Or- 

mond, 
Thy soul's the very nursery of doubt. 
She may have scruples too. 

(To the Duke). 

The priest is here. 
Come let us join him. 

DUKE D'ORMOND. 

Well.—Itshallbeso. 

[Exeunt. 



END OF ACT THE FOURTH, 



242 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 



FIFTH ACT. 



■»<>«*•■ 



SCENE THE FIRST. 

Discovering the Duke D'Ormond asleep on a sofa, 
the Marchioness de Mielcour seated near him with 
a harp, on which she plays a short air. 

(The Duke starting vehemently from the 
sofa* The Marchioness rises to 
meet him, and catches him in her 
arms). 

DUKE D'ORMOND. 

'TIS she ! 'tis she ! Do not you see her there? — 

[The Marchioness looks about, then again 
turns to the Duke.\ 

DUKE D'ORMOND* 

Dead! Julia! dead! No! I will not believe it : 
This is the very coinage of my brain ! 



A TRAGEDY. 243 

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR. 

What ails you, Duke? Speak, dearest D' Or mond, 

speak ! 
Why are your eyes so fixed ? and why do you 
To one part of the room so earnestly 
Direct your looks ? There is nothing to be seen 
There more than usual. 

DUKE D'ORMOND. 

Dead, and living 1 both 
At once ! It is a fearful sight ! 

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR. 

Explain 
Yourself: for heaven's sake, do! 

DUKE D'ORMOND. 

That voice ! That voice ! — 
Is it not altered ? 'Tis not as it should be ! 
Julia ! 

[Looking at the Marchioness, and then sud- 
denly turning from her.] 
Why take that shape, that damned shape ! 
Speak ; I conjure thee, speak ; but in the tones 
Of thy own voice, of thy own natural voice. 

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR. 

D'Ormond ! 

r2 



244 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

duke d'ormond (stopping his ears ) . 
Oh, scream not thus ! Oh, fiend of hell, 
What art thou? What?— 

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR. 

Maria, thy Maria ! — 
Thy own beloved Maria ! Is so soon 
The memory of those rapturous hours effaced, 
Which, ere into this inauspicious sleep 
You fell, we had together passed ? 

DUKE D'ORMOND. 

We! We! 

What, you and I ? Off, off! I know you not! 
Why take that damned shape ? If you are Julia, 
Why not appear to me in Julia's form ? — 

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR. 

D'Ormond, you're ill ! Yes, you are very ill. 
I pray you let me send for some assistance. 

duke d'ormond (with a bitter smile J. 
Ill ? yes, I am ill ! I begin to feel 
Very ill ! It has been a dream ! But oh, 
Such an one, as, with which, not to have been 
Troubled, I would life's forfeiture have held — 
E'en were that life a thousand times more worth 
Than mine is, — a cheap compromise ! — 



A TRAGEDY. 245 

Sit down 
By me, Maria ! I begin to know you 
Is'ow! 

[Again looking towards the place on which 
he had so earnestly, and so fre- 
quently gazed.] 
Is she there ? I seem to see her yet ! — 
There ! 

[Pointing to the place.] 
(To the Marchioness), 
You remember what I said to you 
Last night, of Julia ? Nay, start not ! Be calm. 
Look not at me so ! Be calm, very calm. 
Fori my senses feel o'th' very brink 
Of alienation ! Be calm, very calm ! 
You recollect that which I said of Julia ? — 
Listen, and keep that in your mind! I dreamed 
That thou in a delicious paradise, 
And I, together wandered. Round us breathed 
Strains of the most entrancing harmony ! — 
We seemed like blessed immortals newly winged. 
As if reflecting back the happiness, 
Calm, and intense at once that filled us both, 
Forms both inanimate and animate 
Of beauty sprung, where'er we bent our gaze. 
At once, a feeling of reality, 
"Was, as respected these forms, given to us, 
And, to the other, each allowed, and we 
Had a sense lent to us, as (in subservience 



246 THE PUKE d'ORMOND, 

To our delight, and from the agency 

Of our own wills) started to sudden birth 

This wonderful assemblage of rich shapes. 

Gardens, and plants of amaranthine bloom, 

Bloom such as Eden only saw, conceived 

Alone, by such as dwell in paradise. 

Unfading bowers, and trees of lofty size, 

Umbrageous, rich in leaves, and flowers, and fruits ; 

Immortal streams of living crystal ! — founts 

Of pure and everlasting copiousness. — 

And gorgeous palaces, pavilion-like, 

Meet temples e'en for gods. To crown all these 

Seraphic forms, such as the eye ne'er saw ; 

Seraphic voices, such as ear ne'er heard ! 

Seraphic smiles, such as would win to love 

A heart where fellest hate had fixed its seat. 

A fervid light, intense, yet pure and holy, 

Like a blessed halo, our transfigured forms 

Enveloped. Thou and I wandered at will 

In this delicious paradise ! Love, deep, 

Calm, permeating, cheerful, yet sublime, 

Like that of innocent, adoring spirits 

Transporting, ardent, yet accompanied 

With the most perfect self-tranquillity, 

The soul of each possessed. At once the scene 

All changed ! unutterable darkness now 

Surrounded us. The atmosphere became 

Clammy, pitch-like, and close, and nothing now 

Was visible, except, from time to time, 



A TRAGEDY, 247 

When corruscations lurid and sulphureous, 
Revealed to us, such mansions of dismay, 
Such scenes of horror, as in ghastliness 
Outstripped e'en any of those which the bard 
Of Florence, or that greater British son 
Of song immortal, have so well pourtrayed. 
Chasms, yawning chasms; clouds both thunder- 
voiced, 
And black as Erebus ; bickerings horrible 
Of light unnatural ; now r of yellow, dun 
And tawny, now of fiercest lurid red. 
Unutterable groans, and yells, and screams; 
Lakes of bitumen, and of weltering pitch, 

Emitting a sulphureous fetidness 

Even to suffocation : these, and such 

As these, the objects were that smote our senses.— 

In one, the blackest interval of darkness, 

Betwixt the corruscations I described 

I suddenly perceived that, by my side, 

You were no more ; since, when I called on you, 

No longer you made answer to my call, 

As you had heretofore. Into a vast 

Interminable desert, in an instant, 

Of polar ice and snow was metamorphosed 

This chaos of infernal images ; 

Rugged, — abrupt, — ice-cliff on ice-cliff piled, 

And nought beside, into the firmament 

Started around me ! Dense and noisome fog, 

O'er the whole brooded ! Such a yellow fog 



248 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

As, in the winter oft o'ercanopies 
Some vast metropolis ! and when the eye, 
On the monotonous and wintry waste 
With gazing tired, its speculation fixed 
Where rolled (in solemn masses ocean-like, 
Billowy and multitudinous as its waves) 
Volumes of vapour, 'twas in canopy, 
Though moving, yet impenetrable, lost ! — 
The only thing worse to endure than sight 
Of the unbounded solitude around me 
On every side, were — e'en to fearfulness — 
To awful, unexpressive fearfulness — 
The sentiment of mental solitude 
That, at the same time, was on me impressed ; 
With such a sense of cold, such corse-like cold, 
As I had been a petrifaction, yet 
To life, and thought inexorably chained. 
For some short space this lasted. Presently 
1, as it were, heard th' utterance of my name. 
It seemed as if it were " a wandering voice" 
That floated in the air. No where it was, 
Yet every where ; nor w 7 as it more allied 
To form, than 'twas to place. I afterwards 
Near to the base of fissure in a cliff 
Of ice, espied an aperture, that had 
The semblance of the entrance to a cave. 
Thither my steps instinctively were urged. 
When I had entered it, the fissure seemed 
More narrow; and that — which externally 



A TRAGEDY. 249 

Had had appearance, from the top o'trT cliff 
To the bottom, of continuous separation; 
Now o'er my head was arched ! and at the end 
Of a long narrow avenue, to which 
The vision but imperfectly extended, 
A light gleam, which, as I had now advanced 
Further, than to receive a benefit 
From the murky twilight of the solitude 
I'd left, was, to this vault's extremity 
My only guide ! Onward I went, and what 
Was my surprize, when I came to the end 
Of this ice-fretted passage, to behold 
Roofed, walled with ice, and with ten thousand cres- 
sets 
Of crystalline transparency illumed, 

A circular magnificent apartment. 

At the far end of this, on gorgeous couch, 

Or sofa, on an area placed, to which 

By steps of ice, transparent, you ascend, 

Beneath a canopy profusely decked 

With festooned curtains, and rich drapery, 

Luxuriant from its amplitude of folds, 

Of gossamery lightness, I saw you, 

Maria, seated in immortal beauty. 

You beckoned me to you with all that grace 

Of earnestness, with delicacy tempered, 

Which is your own peculiar attribute. — 

Forward I rushed to clasp you in my arms. 

A crash, as of the loudest thunder, smote 



250 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

My ear ! The whole scene vanished ! and I saw, 
In the same place in which I saw her last, 
Julia, a corse, in my embrace. I did 
Maria ! But thou art not she ? My brain 
Is all on fire ! Is not she there ? Art thou 
A vision or reality ? If thou 
Be a reality, come to my arms ! 
Is not she there ? 



SCENE THE SECOND. 

Duke D'Ormond, Marchioness de Mielcour, 
Julia, Courtenaye, and Despard. 

[Enter to the Duke, and the Marchioness, 
silently, and from behind a folding 
screen, which intercepts the sight 
of them from the two first named 
persons, to the very spot ivhere the 
Duke fancied that he had seen Ju- 
lia, Julia herself, Courtenaye, and 
Despard.] 

duke d'ormond (to the Marchioness J. 
DOST thou not see her there ? — 

[Hides his face with his hands. Julia 
meanwhile feels overcome: she makes 
an effort to dart forward to the 



A TRAGEDY. 251 

Duke, and sinks at his feet. A 
long silence and general embarrass- 
ment ensue. At last, as the Mar- 
chioness perceives thai the Duke 
remains fixed in his posture, clench- 
ing his hands over his eyes, and Ju- 
lia almost motionless on the ground, 
though once or twice she raises her 
eyes with somewhat of an appealing 
look to the Duke, and as the Mar- 
chioness begins to guess zvho she is, 
she beckons to Courtenaye and Des- 
pard to assist her in removing either 
the Duke or Julia to another room: 
but though these gentlemen wish to 
restrain Julia so far as to prevent 
her and the Duke from understand- 
ing each other, and therefore are 
anxious to keep her in a sort of side 
play with themselves, and are 
alarmed at the present crisis, when 
she had, as it were, escaped from 
their grasp, yet as the project of 
the Marchioness would utterly de- 
feat their schemes, they affect not to 
understand her,] 

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR, 

(To Courtenaye). 
One, — one of them remove ! Let him not see her. 



252 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

courtenaye ( aside to DespardJ. 
Not see her ! — But he shall ! — 



MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR, 

Look, look at him ! 
At her ! — Ye wretches, it appears to you 
A feast, — this spectacle of misery ! 

[While she speaks, Julia, looking up, 
without changing her kneeling or 
recumbent posture, slowly and gent- 
ly raises one hand, and is about to 
take that of the Duke.~\ 

duke d'ormond (starting). 
Touch me not! touch me not ! Touch not pollution. 

JULIA, 

(Casting a fearful gaze around the room, towards 
the Marchioness^ and Courtenaye, and Des- 
pardJ. 

Ill is he ? Are ye not his friends ? 

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR. 

He is 
Very ill, madam. And as 1 infer 
From your deportment, that himself and you 
Have been ere now acquainted, and since deep 
May be the interest you feel for him, 
And he for you, I do entreat of you 
Now to withdraw into another room, 



A TRAGEDY. 253 

Or with these gentlemen, or me, as he 
Is far too ill now to be taxed with conflict. 

JULIA. 

D'Ormond ! 'Tis Julia now addresses you ; 
Do you not know her voice ? If but one word, 
I do conjure you, speak. 

DUKE D'ORMOND. 

Am I in hell? — 
Off, off! terrific vision ! — 

courtenaye f aside to DespardJ. 
Yes, it works, — - 
The poison works as we could wish it. 

JULIA, 

(Looking fearfully towards Maria). 
Has he 
Been long ill, madam ? I entreat of you 
This mystery to unravel. I cannot 
Thus leave him. 

DUKE D'ORMOND. 

But you shall ! Some one must leave me. 
I am beset, haunted, tormented ! — No ! 
No, no ! — It is mysdf that haunt myself ! — 
I am myself my own fierce tormentor ! — 
Angelic creature! 



254 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR, 

{Seizing Julia by the wrist, and making an effort to 
separate her from D'Ormond). 
Madam, come with me. 
Let us withdraw. 

COURTENAYE, 

(Going up to Despard, and pointing to Julia). 
Do you say something to her. 
No matter what it is, so it be done 
With air of an established intercourse. 

DESPARD. 

I understand you ! Thank you for the hint. 

[Despard goes up to Julia, and affects to 
speak in her ear with the famili- 
arity of an old friend J\ 

COURTENAYE, 

{Now going up to D'Ormond). 
Be more a man ! 

[Pointing to Despard and Julia.] 

You see who she is with. 
What ? Break your heart for mistress of another ! 

DUKE D'ORMOND. 

Curse on thy tongue ! Surely all hell is turned 
Loose upon me ! — This am I to endure! — 



A TRAGEDY. 255 

(To Julia). 
False woman, quit my sight! — For ever quit 
My sight ! — For ever be thou banished ! — 
(To the Marchioness.) 

Here I — : 
Here my sole haven is of lasting peace. 
Let us retire. 

\He embraces the Marchioness, and then 
retires with her.] 

COURTENAYE, 

(To Julia, who advances, though hesitatingly, to 

follow the Duke J. 
Nay, madam, stay here ! You 
See he is ill. If you will be more calm, 
I will repair to him, and bring you word 
Of his condition. 

JULIA. 

Nay, but I will follow. 

COURTENAYE. 

If you provoke me thus, so it must be ! — 
I must command here ! Despard, you assist 
To move this lady to another place. 

[They each take a hand of Julia, and for* 
cibly drag her out of the room.] 

(The Marchioness re-entering, followed by the Duke 
D'OrmondJ. 



26G THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR. 

What noise was that ? They're gone !— 

DUKE D'ORMOND. 

Could I believe this ? 
That Julia ! That angelic, spotless Julia; 
To come, with her unhallowed paramour, 
To insult me to my face? — But stop, perchance, 
This is but the fulfilment of my dream. 
This what was meant by her prefigured death ! 
For now she's dead to me, quite dead ! Can I 
Believe this to be so ? — 

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR. 

Believe this ? No ! — 
Look at her face, and you cannot believe it ! — 
Hear her speak once, and you cannot believe it ! 
Her gestures see, and you cannot believe it. 
There must be some mistake ! I did not know 
She was in Paris : never heard her name 
Either by Courtenaye or by Despard mentioned. 
And yet a confidential intercourse 
'Twixt her and Despard seems established. 

DUKE D'ORMOND. 

No!— 
It is not possible ! The universe, 
If she no longer virtuous prove herself 
Is but a splendid system of imposture. 



A TRAGEDY. 257 

(Enter CourtenayeJ. 

COURTENAYE. 

Galling enough ! — Here Despard and I brought 
His mistress here, thinking by this to set 
Your mind at ease : thinking that seeing thus 
How the affair stood 'twixt him, and that lady 
Without compunction, and without reserve, 
You might the more resign yourself to love, 
To pleasure, and this lady. Thus it is : — 
Whenever you most try to serve your friends, 
You oft produce effects quite opposite 
To those which you wish to achieve, by some 
Unlucky contre terns or blunder. 

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR. 
Still 

The interview was very ill-advised, 

Just at this moment. So abrupt ! so sudden ! 

courtenaye ( aside to the Marchioness J. 
Hush ! Hush ! I have my reasons ! But not now. 
Another time I will explain them. 

DUKE D'ORMOND. 

Have 
I in the world a friend ? Realities 
Are th' individuals round me, or the mere 
Coinage of my distempered brain ? Alas, 



258 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

Nought seems to goon as 'twas wont to do. 
No man's deportment longer seems to me 
Spontaneous or befitting. I could fancy 
That every one around me played a part ; 
And that I, as designed to be their victim, 
Am the only one, of motives ignorant 
Which actuate the agents I observe, 
In one conspiracy 'gainst me. 

COURTENAYE. 

Tush, tush!— 
A truce with your self-teazing phantasies ! 
Your pretty country mistress, innocent, 
Religious, dutiful, although she seemed, 
Has only, in the end, turned out to be, 
What all such paragons of excellence 
Are, a mere flirt, and hypocrite. — For you, — 
'Tis well you have, in time, the truth discovered !— 

[A violent scream is heard from the next 
apartment J\ 

JULIA {within J. 
I will — yes — I will see him ! Though I must 
Die at his feet. 

[The Duke Z)' Ormond goes vp to the door 
through which Julia had been 
dragged by Courtenai/e and Des- 
pard, and finds it locked J\ 



A TRAGEDY. 259 

DUKE D'ORMOND. 

Who — who has dared do this ? — 
There's treachery here. Open this door, or I 
Will burst the lock. 

JULIA (from within J. 

D'Ormond! 

DUKE D'ORMOND. 

Oh, let me hear 
Your voice ! 

[While the Duke is endeavouring to force 
the door, Courtenaye skulks behind 
him and unlocks it, but not unper* 
ceived by the Marchioness.] 

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR. 

Miserable villain I In my house such freedoms ! — 

[The Duke brings in Julia, who looks 
wildly about the room, and is ap- 
parently quite unconscious of the 
objects near her.] 

JULIA. 

Was this well done ? Here, here I came alone ! 
My mother I have buried I There, there, there, 

[Pointing to the ground.] 

s 2 



260 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

I laid her there! Her coffin I beheld 

As it sunk slow in earth ! The creaking ropes 

I heard, as gradually it disappeared ! 

The earth and stones I also heard, as they 

Were on its surface cast ! But then I thought 

Of D'Ormond ! Else, I should have fainted ! Oh ! 

It was a wicked thought ! 

DUKE D'ORMOND. 

Julia! My love? — 
Julia. 

JULIA. 

That voice ! Before I've listened to it !— 
And it was silver sweet ! Oft in my dreams 
I have heard it ! Ah ! then sleep to me was wel- 



come 



But Julia never now must slumber more ! 

DUKE D'ORMOND. 

Demons of hell ! Behold, what have you done ! 

(To Julia, leading her to a sofa J. 
Sit, sit, — my love ! My blessed Julia, 'tis 
D'Ormond who speaks to you ! See, see — he kneels 
Before you ! 
(To the Marchioness, who seems much affected.) 
Come here ! you have yet, at least, 
I see, a woman-hearted feeling. Help me ! — 
Try to recal her wandering thoughts. 



A TRAGEDY. 4 261 

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR. 

Indeed 
I would do any thing, sir, every thing* ! 
My heart bleeds both for you, and for this lady. 

(To Courtenaye and UespardJ. 
For you, ye wretches, it were honouring you 
Too much, to waste a curse upon you. 

[The Marchioness advances towards Julia, 
and in endeavouring to cause her to 
recline on some of the cushions of 
the sofa, which, for that purpose, 
she had previously piled at one end 
of it, as Julians posture is changed, 
a miniature which is fastened round 
her neck, and which was concealed 
in her bosom, escapes from its con- 
finement ; Courtenaye, who, with 
Despard, is looking over the back 
of the sofa, appears much struck 
with it, and fixes his eyes intently 
upon it.~\ 

COURTENAYE. 

'Tis, 
By all the saints, my mother! This must be 
Her picture ! What may be this lady's name?— 



262 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

JULIA. 

That voice is gone ! Where ami? Round and round 

My head whirls ! Hark ! What horrid voice is that 

I hear ? Speak— speak — say would ye murder me ? — 

Alone, unfriended, on his love relying-, 

Did I not come here ? But I have been used 

Most vilely. Into wicked hands I've fallen ! — 

They told me he was false, another loved ! — 

Meanwhile confiding, trusting in his truth, 

And her own innocence, she cast herself, 

Yes, his poor Julia, she cast herself 

Into this populous city, and here, — here, — 

Have I insulted been. 

DUKE D'ORMOND. 

My Julia! Julia !— 
It is thine own dear D'Ormond. 

JULIA. 

Yes ! I know it ! — 
I know thy voice now ! I am well, quite well ! — 

DUKE D'ORMOND. 

Oh ecstacy ! Ah Julia ! — my own Julia ! — 

JULIA. 

Ah D'Ormond ! What I've suffered you know not ! — 
My mother ! my dear mother ! — 



A TRAGEDY. 263 

DUKE D'ORMOND. 

What of her?— 

[Julia hides her face in her handkerchief, 
D'Ormond now first observes her 
mourning garments, and the minia- 
ture lying in her bosom.] 

DUKE D'ORMOND. 

Ah, spare your words I She is — I understand you — 
These mourning weeds. — 

COURTENAYE, 

( Who all this time had been lost in amazement and 
curiosity). 
Her name ? What is her name ? — 

DUKE D'ORMOND. 

Wliose name ? Why are you thus inquisitive ?— 

COURTENAYE. 

This lady's mother's ! Her's whose portrait here 
This lady honours thus. 

DUKE D'ORMOND. 

Her name is Villeueuve. 
She is the daughter of my father's sister ! 

COURTENAYE. 

Almighty God, she is my sister i 



2G4 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

ALL, 

(Excepting Julia, whose countenance resumes all its 
bewilderment, and becomes expressive of re- 
lapsing insanity J. 

Yours ! — 

Your sister ? — 

COURTENAYE. 

Yes, my name by birth is Villeneuve ! 
Though I have changed it for another. She 
My sister is. 

JULIA (starting wildly from th e sofa) . 
Who talked of sister? No ! 
No, no ! 'Tis D'Ormond that I want. I have 
No brother, mother, friend ! — I have lost all. 

duke d'ormond fto CourtenayeJ. 
Be on your guard ! See what you've done ! Do you, 
Marchioness, draw him hence. 

[The Marchioness beckons Courtenaye 
apart ; they walk towards the inte- 
rior of the apartment, Despard 
hanging on their rearJ] 

JULIA. 

Is it then come 
To this ? For him I kept myself alive ! — 



A TRAGEDY. 265 

When J have watched, daily, and hourly watched, 

The dying look, and the decaying* form, 

Of my revered, and venerable mother ; 

And when I recollected that I had, 

When she went, not a friend on earth, I should 

Have also died had I not thought of D'Grmond. 

lie is to Julia the whole universe ! — 

And the whole universe speaks, breathes of nought 

To her, but him ! Sometimes, I think I see him, 

But it is only in a shadowy dream, 

Which, with the semblance of reality, 

But mocks me ! No, 'twixt him and me, there is 

Fixed an impassable gulph ! I feel it here. 

Here — here ! 

[Putting her hand alternately to her head 
and her heart.'] 
(To the Duke, who makes an attempt to speak to her J, 

Do not look so at me ! Talk not 
To me ! You only mock me ! You are like, 
But you are not the same. 

DUKE D'ORMOND, 

(Still supporting Julia) hut turning aside to that 
part of the room where the Marchioness is) . 
Do one of you 
Come here, and take my place ! I cannot bear it ! — 
Each word she utters stabs my very vitals ! 
E'en worse than she herself soon shall I be ! 



2(36 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

[The Marc J lioness advances to support Ju- 
lia, with a look of the deepest con- 
cern and sympathy,] 

JULIA, 

(As she approaches, and as the Duke is about to 

disengage himself from her). 
Off — off — no one shall touch me but himself. 

(To the Duke). 
You should be D'Ormond ! But you are not he ! 
My once beloved D'Ormond ! There's a likeness ! — 
And for that likeness' sake, no one of you 
Shall touch me but himself. I love you e'en 
For that resemblance ! But the real D'Ormond 
And Julia must be wedded in the grave ! — 
Fearful thoughts have I ! — fearful visions ! 

DUKE D'ORMOND. 

Hell, 
Canst thou have agonies surpassing this ! — 
Julia, my Julia, my own Julia! — 
Oh, God of mercy, straining to my heart, 
Here am I, all that that heart most adores ! 
But I have made a sacrifice of her ! — 
And now, although our forms be intertwined, 
An insurmountable impediment 
Is raised between us ! — We no longer Jive 
In the same world ! — 



A TRAGEDY. 267 

julia (catching his last ivords). 
Gh, but we do ! There is 
No world for me to live in where he is not ! — • 
In every beating- of my heart he lives ! — 
But soft — bad thoughts will peradventure rise 
When one, like me, is ill. 

[Disengaging her liand.] 
About a knife, 
I think, I somewhat recollect ! There was 
A mad girl, who lived near my mother's house, 
Who had a knife, a wicked knife ! — 

[Putting her hand in her pocket. ~\ 
You look 
Kind, and as if you fain would serve me. Keep, 
I pray you, this ! Keep it for my poor sake ! 

[Giving him a knife. ~\ 
They say a knife is an unlucky gift ! — 
But ah, what gift of mine would not be so ? — 
Now pray keep that, and think of me ! This pic- 
ture, 
I cannot part with that ! or I would give 
That to you also ! No, no, that must be 
Buried with me ! Here ! For my sake, keep these ! 
[Producing a few trinkets, and a worked 
handkerchief and giving the for- 
mer to the Duke.~\ 
That handkerchief was formerly designed 
For D'Ormond, as a fond memorial ! See, 



268 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

How carefully I have embroidered it ! — 
Here, with my hair, are his initials marked. 

[Bursts into a flood of tears.] 

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR. 

These tears! Grant heaven they might relieve her ! 

What 
Wretches, good God, are we ! Trifling away 
In inconsiderate and unmeaning passions, 
(To say the best of them, we cannot give 
To them a higher epithet) our time, 
While this divine, self-sacrificing creature, 
Little by little, and uncomforted, 
Was dying our unconscious victim. When 
I think of it, I hate myself to loathing. 

despard (to CourtenayeJ. 
Well acted, on my honour! If she turn 
Preacher, who says that miracles have ceased ? 

courtenaye (to DespardJ . 
Hold that blaspheming tongue of thine ! This is 
An hour for cursing rather than such mummery ! 

[Julia, who has continued weeping all this 
time, now casts a look of ineffable 
sweetness for a moment towards 
D'Ormond.] 



A TRAGEDY. 2G9 

DUKE D'ORMOND. 

Beloved creature ! Look thou ever thus ! 
This is thy D'Ormond ! Come, sit down again ! — 
Try to be tranquil ! All will yet be well. 
(Turning to the Marchioness) • 
This lady will to you be as a sister ! — 
Maria, will you not ? — 

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR. 

Oh, that I were 
Worthy of that ! — I am for life her convert !— 
A name for me more suited than the other ! 

COURTENAYE. 

What canting have we here ? We may as well 
Go hang ourselves, 

DESPARD. 

Aye, hang, drown, poison, shoot ; — 
Or any thing methinks ! What think you now 
Of your manoeuvring ? 

COURTENAYE. 

Think ? I am too mad 
To think ! I'm quite sick of the part I take ! — 
That's all I know ! 

JULIA. 

This, this is the true D'Ormond ! — 
Now is our bridal hour come. I engaged 



270 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

I would be true to you ! See, see, from earth 
He rises ! To the skies he beckons me. — 
Ah, this is he indeed ! He is but gone 
Before me ; and invites me to his arms ! — • 
My love is not a love of mortal mould ! — 
He is a blessed, ethereal spirit ! Now !— 
This is the hour ! I hear his voice ! I come ! 
D'Grmond I come ! Of everlasting* union 
Thus I invoke the sacramental pledge ! 

[Sinks down on her knees. The Duke and 
the Marchioness each rush forward 
towards her, she faints; and while 
the curtain slowly falls, they bear 
her 9 in a state of insensibility, out 
of the apartment .] 



SCENE THE THIRD. 
Courtenaye and Despard, 

COURTENAYE. 

WAS not this nobly done? A man to turn 
Pander to his own sister? 

DESPARD. 

I am all 
Amazement ! Solve this riddle to me. Is 



A TRAGEDY. 271 

Courtenaye your name or not ? Say, have you been 

Making 1 fools of us for the last four years, 

Or are you making now? Though, to speak truth, 

You seem predestined of yourself to make 

The greatest fool, 

COURTENAYE. 

Listen, Despard, to me ; 
And cease thy stupid wonder ! Villeneuve is 
My real name ! I am brother to this lady ; 
Son to the sister, and the only sister, 
(Brother or sister none had he besides) 
Of the Duke D'Ormond's father : though of this 
The Duke had no suspicion. Little wealth 
To me my father at his death bequeathed. 
He was a hugenot : under pretence 
Of heresy, of his fair patrimony 
By far the greater part was confiscate 
To the omnivorous rapaciousness 
Of superstitious hypocrites and bigots. 
But as my mother's brother, the Duke's father, 
Lived single till advanced in years, and since 
There were no heirs in the male line, I was 
Believed to be, till I was ten years old, 
My uncle's heir. Thus learned I to abhor 
Whoever might fill up the vacant niche, 
With its appurtenances, doomed one day, 
As I was flattered to expect, and hoped, 
On myself to devolve. — The Duke and I 



272 THE DUKE D'ORMOXD, 

Both were at the same school ; though younger, he 

But two years came to, ere I quitted, it : — 

And subsequently college comrades were we. 

Thus by the relative circumstance, at first, 

Of both our houses, the Duke's wealthy, while 

My own, its equal in pretensions, was 

Impoverish'd, then by D'Ormond's birth, and lastly 

By his pre-eminence, were frustrated, 

Nay, strangled in the cradle which had nurs'd them, 

My high ambition, and aspiring hopes !— 

I came to Paris, pedant rules abjured, 

And buckled to my thigh th' adventurous sword, 

Hoping by force to win those smiles of fortune, 

Which to my blood, and talents were denied.—- 

But strong solicitings of appetite 

Here made myself my own antagonist, 

As much as in the earlier scenes of life 

My kinsman so had been. Why weary you 

With a long tale ? — Desire exceeded means ; 

And love of pleasure, pleasure's subsidies. 

My father died, the little that from him 

I gathered, in usurious practices 

Had long time been forestalled. Bankrupt was I 

In hope as well as fortune. I applied 

To a friend, my father when a bachelor 

Had had, who since that time had fixed himself 

On the vast transatlantic continent. — - 

My friends then living, nothing of him knew. 

He too unwedded was. He had acquired 



A TRAGEDY, 273 

Vast wealth, yet had no one with whom to share it. 

He flattered my appeal, invited me 

To seek a home with him. I quitted France — 

My friends no longer tidings of me hearing 

Conjectured I was dead ; and to confirm 

This thought, I framed a tale, committing it 

To such a channel as I knew would bring it 

To them, establishing beyond all doubt, 

This fact already rumoured and believed. 

My father's youthful comrade welcom'd me 

With hospitality : after a ten years' tarriance 

under his roof, he died, left me his wealth, 

With the sole stipulation that henceforth 

I, in addition to my own, should bear, 

With its appurtenant blazonries, his name. 

The effect of ten years' tarriance in a clime, 

With manners foreign, had been such, that I 

Conceived no fears, should I return to France, 

Than any in my visnomy or person, 

A comrade of past times should recognise. 

I came to Paris. Never once did I 

Ask tidings of my mother or my sister. 

As for the latter, fifteen years was she 

Younger than I; and as she still had leaned — 

From a more strict accordancy of tastes 

In part, with more accordancy of years, — 

To closer intercourse with my uncle's son 

Than with myself, she of the hate partook 

I bore to him. With wealth to cope with it, 

T 



274 THE DUKE D'OItMONI), 

My earlier love returned of costly pastimes. 

Added to this, I had acquired, since first 

I left my native land, — so filling up 

My oft recurring intervals of leisure — 

A taste for hazardous stakes at games of chance. 

When the Duke hither came, once more was I 

A ruined man ! I hated him as much 

As ever: — felt no fear that he in me 

Would recognise a kinsman and a rival ! — 

Leagued with the Marchioness de Mielcour, 

Believing that his coffers groaned with wealth, — 

You know the rest— I formed a scheme, through her, 

Or so to make a bankrupt of his mind, — 

Knowing his strict tenaciousness of conscience — 

And knowing too how wayward are his passions — 

Through her I formed a scheme — by making her 

The means of his launching his eager bark 

From the sure pilotage of virtuous love — 

To engulph him in destruction, first of soul, 

And then of body ! Or if this should fail, 

At least by having made him with himself 

At war, knowing how prone his nature is 

To crave excitement, thence to draw him on 

Into th' inextricable toils and snares 

Which wait all novices in games of chance ; 

From whence I trusted that my elder skill 

Might disencumber his inheritance 

Of its redundant superfluity. 

You see how far my projects have matured ! 



A TRAGEDY. 275 

E'en as all mine have done ! to pieces dashed, 
Just as they seemed for consummation fit 1 
And now am I at my wit's end, to know 
How from this labyrinth to make escape. 

DESPARD. 

You are indeed, man, in your own snares caught ! 
Help you— who can ! Not I ! — I wash my hands 
Of the whole stratagem. 

COURTENAYE. 

Curses on such 
Cold-blooded villany! But, hark you, Despard, 
If I must be exposed, as semblably 
I shall be, you (as you have not refused 
To share in the contingent benefits 
To this scheme tacked) shall not, I promise you, 
In case of its miscarriage, be exempt 
From being partner in its obloquy. 

[A scream is heard from the apartment 
within : the door bursts open, and 
Julia, her hair loose , and in anight 
dress, rushes in to Courtenaye and 
Despard, followed by the Duke 
D'Ormond, Physician, and the 
Marchioness de Mieleour.] 
t2 



276 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

JULIA. 

Is't so ? They say he lives ! did I not see him ? — 
Did he not beckon to me from the skies ? — 
Immortal was he, radiant, unearthly ! — 
And now they tell me that 'twas all a dream !— 

(Going up to Courtenaye). 
Did" not you mention make to me erewhile 
About a sister ? — I no brother have ! 
Oh, could I but believe in any thing! — 
But all seems shadowy ; all forms indistinct, 
And changing every moment ! Even now 
Your face puts on a thousand different aspects. 
Let me at something grasp ! I'm falling — falling — 
The very firm-set earth seems to give way 
Under my feet ! 

PHYSICIAN. 

This must not be allowed ! — 
This lady must be quiet, or there is 
No chance the anodyne we have administered 
Will prove effectual. If this lady be 
Not tranquillized, and speedily, 1 fear 
Greatly the end of this. 

JULIA. 

Fear, said you ? What 
Fear you ? You all have driven me to this ! — 



A TRAGEDY. 277 

And now pretend astonishment, nay, pity. — 

It is too late for that ! Who pitied me 

Alone and unprotected ? I have been 

The very mark for insult to exhaust 

On me all possible atrocities. — 

And now you pity me ! I smile at this. 

Let me be quiet. Quietness I ask !— 

There is but one place where I can indulge 

That wish — the grave ! Oh, look thou down, look 

down, 
On thy abused, and broken-hearted daughter, 
My sainted mother! — But I cannot pray! — 
No, no, a cold hand presses on my heart, 
As if its very beatings it would stifle ! — 
I know by your looks that you think me mad ! 
No, no ! I am not mad ! I yet distinguish 
'Twixt foes and friends ; as proof of it, here— here 
Will I take up my everlasting rest ! — 

[She rushes into the arms of the Duke 
iyOrmond; while he endeavours to 
press her to his bosom, her knees 
faulter, she slips through his arms, 
and dies at his feet.] 



278 THE DUKE D'OKMOND, 



SCENE THE LAST. 

Inside of a Monastery : the coffin of Julia covered 
with a velvet pall, and tapers burning around it. 

The Marchioness de Mielcour, habited in deep 
mourning, bending over the coffin. 

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR, 

(After a pause.) 
YOU I renounce henceforth for ever, Love, 
Pleasure, ambition ! See here — what a wreck 
Your sophistries have wrought, ye that would plead 
For the unchecked indulgence of your passions, 
Under pretence that they instinctive are, 
And thence legitimate, in human breasts: — 
Only since natural, legitimate ! — 
Myself do I abhor! 'Tis true, I cannot 
A whining, canting, penitent become. 
The penance of coarse garments, homely fare, 
Fasting, and maceration, tedious vigils 
Consumed in prayer, and solitary gloom ; 
Nay, that of the most rigid order which 
Of discipline monastic has e'er yet 
Been instituted, e'en though solitude, 
And everlasting silence, it involved, 



A TRAGEDY. 279 

Would be to me no penance ! Mine shall be 
Of deeper dye ! I will consent to live 
To be an object for " the hand of scorn 
To point her slowly moving finger at." 
Mine being yet rank, opulence, and power, 
In others I may yet alleviate woe. 
My future life shall now be dedicate 
To this resolve, renouncing utterly 
The sources e'en of virtuous sympathy, 
If chance I might enjoy them ; though I fear 
Rather must I now lie in wait for them, 
Than hope that they will come spontaneously: 
And though I be fallen, yet not fallen so low 
As to accept of that beneath a mask, 
Which is of w 7 orth but as 'tis genuine. 

(Kneeling before the coffin of Julia J. 

Dear saint, thou art no more! awful indeed 

Hath been the sacrifice, which hath produced 

This revolution in my character. 

Yet deign thou, from the mansions of the blest, 

Not only to attend to, but record, 

The vow, (and pledge be for its strict performance) 

Which now I make, to consecrate to thee, 

And to thy memory, every future hour : 

On earth to represent thee ! Not, oh no ! 

In uncontaminated purity. 

In native innocence, and fervent zeal 

Of adoration ! That can never be ! 

But still as a self-sacrificing spirit, 



280 THE DUKE D'oRMOND, 

To copy thee in thy beneficence, 

In thy devotedness of character ! 

Although no masses, no meet obsequies, 

Were celebrated for thy soul's repose, 

Yet, from thy ashes, in my heart shall spring 

A sacrificial flame of charity, 

To which (thus prostrating myself before 

The narrow mansion which containeth all 

That now remains of thee) I make a vow 

Most solemnly to consecrate each deed, 

And future thought. She is no more ! No more 

The rain, ambitious, proud Maria lives !— 

Even as thou art, Julia, is she dead ! — 

And her transformed self but consents to dwell 

On this earth as a delegate to thee ! — 

Till after years spent in the deep abasement 

Of never shunned, and ever cleaving shame, 

She may be fit to commune with thy spirit 

In scenes where tears are wiped from every eye. 

[As she is slowly rising, the Duke D'Or- 
mond enters. Both he and the 
Marchioness stand for some time, 
ivithout looking at each other, in- 
tently gazing on the coffin.] 

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR. 

Words were superfluous here ! were sacrilege ! 
Till to the earth that coffin be consigned 



A TRAGEDY, 281 

To endure your presence I consent : that done, 
Our separation must be everlasting. 

DUKE D'ORMOND. 

To-morrow, I, in company with Colville, 

Quit, for America, my native land ; 

Having long had the purpose to go thither, 

He, with a portion of his patrimony, 

Made change for grant of lands from government, 

In the most inaccessible retreats 

Which France holds in that mighty continent. 

And, all preliminaries now arranged, 

His scheme is ripe for final execution. 

My days I mean to end with Colville there, 

Distant from former scenes, in solitude, 

Unsolaced, unconversing solitude : — 

Or at least inasmuch so, as respects 

The gay, the frivolous, the fortunate ; 

The multitude of the common file of men ; 

Those human beings whose hearts have not been 

Seered by th' hot iron of calamity, 

Guilt, and remorse ! Let us, Maria, take 

Our last farewell, kneeling once more before 

The narrow mansion where poor Julia lies. 

[They kneel before the coffin. As the 
Duke D'Ormond and the Mar- 
chioness de Mielcour, after a so- 
lemn pause, severally retire in dif 



282 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

f event directions to remote parts of 
the apartment^ Count Colville and 
Le Charier enter, unseen by, and 
not seeing themi\ 

COUNT colville, ( approaching the coffin). 
And this is all that I could do for thee, 
Thou ill-requited victim ! This the sad, 
The latest sacrifice to social ties, 
That I shall pay ere I for ever quit 
My native land ! In all this pomp of death, 
I seem to see again the obsequies 
Of my beloved wife ! Little thought I, 
When I, but yesternight, in my own house 
Conversed with her, and at the hour of noon 
Promised a second interview to-day, 
That such would be our meeting ! Yet I have 
Cause to congratulate myself that I 
Knew by her means, that she in Paris was. 
Thus, when I found her not, where she had fixed 
To meet me, to Duke D'Ormond's house I went. 
He was not there. By diligent inquiry 
1 traced him to the Marchioness de Mielcour's, 
Just as the dire catastrophe had chanced. 
So little here was Julia known ; so deep, 
And violent was Duke D'Ormond's agony, 
And that which pierced the Marchioness, perchance, 
Had it not been for me, she might have lost 
Those honours, and commemorative rites 



A TRAGEDY. 283 

Due to her rank, and exemplary virtue, 
Though they were both by poverty eclipsed. — 
I interceded with this sisterhood, 
To let her corse be hither borne, and now 
I here repair, (while, with thy presence, thou 
Dost countenance, and dost assist, to add 
Meet reverence to it) when a solemn dirge 
Is to be chanted o'er her mortal relics. 

[As Count Colville concludes, a solemn 
chaunting is heard from a distance* 
The organ strikes up ; a proces- 
sion of Nuns enters, preceded by 
the Abbess, and the Duke D'Or- 
mond and the Marchioness de Miel- 
courfall into its rear.] 

COUNT COLVILLE. 

But see, the sisterhood advances ! Hark : 
The organ's solemn peal ! Take we our part 
In this last act of holy reconcilement 
To an untimely death : an act, as we 
Would fain believe, both to the dead and living 
Mutually fraught and interchangeably 
With sweet forgiveness, and religious love ! 

The Dirge is here performed. 

I. 
HEAR, oh God ! our solemn prayer ! — 
Here is sorrow, not despair. 



284 THE DUKE D'ORMOND, 

Here a virgin victim lies, 
An unconscious sacrifice ! — 
Blighted by the world's cold scorn, 
Like a flower in April born, 
Which having sprung up all too frail 
To bear retiring winter's gale, 
Ere it could display its pride, 
TempesUstricken, drooped and died. 

II. 

Bounteous God, of whom we trust, 
That thou in mercy ever dost 
Chastise the creatures thou hast made, 
May, from the tomb where she is laid, 
Such a spirit spring, and seize 
Those whose unhallowed ministries 
Brought to the grave this Innocent, — 
That they may, ere too late, repent ; 
Thus from her fall, and sacrifice, 
May all her foes to Heaven arise* 

III. 

So in the abodes of endless rest 

Her virtues will be doubly blest ; 

Blessed in their native innocence, 

And blessed in blessings they dispense. 

Already do we seem to hear 

A voice from this untimely bier, 

Which calls to those who knew her when 

She sojourned in the haunts of men. 



A TRAGEDY. 285 

u If ye regret pangs I've endured, 

" Be by those pangs to Heaven allured ! 

" Thus will my fate, however hard, 

" Meet with a more than full reward/' 

[The coffin is slowly borne out of the cha~ 
pel, followed by the Duke JD'Or- 
mond, Count Colville, Le Charier, 
the Marchioness de Mielcour, and 
the procession of Nuns, and the 
curtain falls as the symphony is 
played which closes this dirge.] 



THE END, 



L. C. Bindery 
1904. 



